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THE CAMBRIDGE POETS 

Student's Edition 



SHELLEY 

EDITED BY 

GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY 



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Edited by 


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PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. 



TO 
EDWARD DOWDEN 

FOP, aiS SERVICE TO THE MEMORY OF 

SHELLEY 

THIS EDITION IS DEDICATED 



EDITOR'S NOTE 

The text of this edition is that of the Centenary Edition of Shelley's Poetical 
Works, 1892, hut differs from it hy the omission of variant readings and emenda- 
tions except in cases where the text is acknowledged to he corrupt or of doubtful 
authority. The only contribution to our knowledge of the sources of the text since 
1892 is Professor Zupitza's description of some of the Oxford (formerly Boscombe) 
MSS., contributed to the Archiv fur das Studium der neueren Sprachen und 
Literaturen, Band XCIV, Heft 1, from which a few corrections have been noted ; 
but for the student of the text the Centenary Edition is indispensable. The Me- 
moir of that Edition is reprinted as the Biographical Sketch, and a condensation 
of the documentary extracts which in that edition were used to illustrate the 
history of the poems has been embodied in the Headnotes. The long notes in 
French and Greek affixed by Shelley to Queen Mab have been omitted at the 
suggestion of the General Editor of the series ; and the Original Poetry of Victor 
and Cazire, of which a copy was found in 1898, has not been included. The 
Notes and Illustrations have been mainly confined to the more important 
poems of Shelley, especially Alastor, Prometheus Unbound, Epipsychidion, 
Adonais and Hellas ; and they embrace only simple explanations of the text, 
the principal sources and parallel passages in the poets familiar to Shelley, and 
such cross-references as seemed to throw light on his ideas and habit of mind, 
together with a few critical comments ; no attempt has been made to include such 
information as can be readily obtained from encyclopaedias, dictionaries, manuals 
of mythology, and hke works. In this portion of the work the editor has made 
use of the labors of scholars and critics who have studied particular poems of 
Shelley, and he takes pleasure in acknowledging special obligation to Professor 
Al. Beljame's Alastor, Miss Vida Scudder's Prometheus Unbound, Rossetti's 
Adonais, and Dr. Richard Ackermann's investigation of these three works and 
also the Epipsychidion ; the fact that these studies have appeared in the last 
ten years in France, America, Dngland and Germany indicates the vitality and 
extent of Shelley's fame. G. E. W. 

Aug^t, 1901. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . . . xv 

QUEEN MAB: A PHILOSOPHICAL 
POEM. 
Introductory Note .... 1 
To Harriet ***** . , , , 2 
Queen Mab 3 

aLASTOR: or, the SPIRIT OF SOL- 
ITUDE. 
Introductory Note . . . .31 
Alastor 33 

THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 

Introductory Note . . . .43 
Author's Preface .... 45 

To Mary .... 49 

Canto First 51 

Canto Second 61 

Canto Third 69 

Canto Fourth 74 

Canto Fifth 80 

Canto Sixth 91 

Canto Seventh .... 100 

Canto Eighth 107 

Canto Ninth Ill 

Canto Tenth 117 

Canto Eleventh .... 125 
Canto Twelfth 129 

ROSALIND AND HELEN: A MOD- 
ERN ECLOGUE. 

Introductory Note .... 136 
Rosalind and Helen . . . 137 

JULIAN AND MADDALO: A CON- 
VERSATION. 
Introductory Note . . . 151 
Author's Preface .... 152 
Julian and Maddalo . . . 152 

PROMETHEUS UNBOUND : A LYRI- 
CAL DRAMA. 

Introductory Note . . . 160 
Author's Preface .... 162 

Act I 165 

Act II 178 

Act III 189 

Act rV 197 



9^8 
THE CENCI : A TRAGEDY. 

Introductory Note . . . 206 
Dedication to Leigh Hunt, Esq. . 208 
Author's Preface .... 209 

Act I 211 

Act II 218 

Act III 224 

Act IV 232 

Act V 242 

THE MASK OF ANARCHY. 

Introductory Note . . . 252 
The Mask of Anarchy . . . 253 

PETER BELL THE THIRD. 

Introductory Note . . . 258 

Dedication 259 

Prologue 260 

Part the First : Death . . . 260 
Part the Second: The Devil . 261 
Part the Third: Hell . . . 262 
Part the Fourth: Sin. . . 264 
Part the Fifth: Grace . . • 265 
Part the Sixth: Damnation . 267 
Part the Seventh: Double Dam- 
nation 269 

THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 

Introductory Note .... 271 

To Mary 272 

The Witch of Atlas . . . 273 

(EDIPUS TYRANNUS, OR SWELL- 
FOOT THE TYRANT: A TRAGEDY. 
Introductory Note .... 283 
Advertisement .... 284 

Act I 284 

Act II 291 

EPIPSYCHIDION. 

Introductory Note .... 297 
Advertisement .... 298 
Epipsychidion 298 

ADONAIS: AN ELEGY ON THE 
DEATH OF JOHN KEATS. 
Introductory Note .... 307 
Author's Preface . . . « 307 
Adonais 308 



CONTENTS 



HELLAS : A LYRICAL DRAMA. 
Introductory Note 
Author's Preface 
Prologue : a Fragment 
Hellas . . . • • 



317 
318 
320 
322 



jIISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Early Pobwls. 

Evening: To Harriet . . . 339 

To Ianthe 3i0 

Stanza written at Brack- 
nell 340 

To COh, there are spirits 

OF the air') 340 

To (' Yet look on me — take 

not thine eyes away ') . . 341 
Stanzas. April, 1814. . . 341 

To Harriet 342 

To Mary Wollstonecraft God- 
win 342 

Mutability 343 

On Death 343 

A Summer Evening Churchyard 343 
To Wordsworth .... 344 
Feelings of a Republican on 

the Fall of Bonaparte . . 344 
Lines ('The cold earth slept 

below') 345 

Poems written in 1816. 

The Sunset 345 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 346 
Mont Blanc: IjInes written in 
the Vale of Chajviouni . . 347 
Poems written in 1817. 

Marianne's Dream . . . 350 
to constantia singing . . 352 
To THE Lord Chancellor. . 353 
To William Shelley . . . 354 
On Fanny Godwin . . . 355 
Lines ('That time is dead for- 
ever, child') .... 355 

Death 355 

Sonnet. — Ozymandias . . 356 
Lines to a Critic .... 356 
■*oems written in 1818. 

Sonnet : To the Nile . . . 357 
Passage of the Apennines . 357 

The Past 358 

On a Faded Violet . . . 358 
Lines written among the Euga- 

NEAN Hills 358 

Invocation to Misery . 362 

Stanzas written in Dejection, 

NEAR Naples .... 363 
Sonnet (' Lift not the painted 
veil which those who live ') 363 



Poems written in 1819. 

Lines written during the Cab- 

tlereagh administration . 364 
Song to the Men of England 364 
To SiDMOUTH AND Castlereagh . 365 
England in 1819 .... 365 
National Anthem .... 365 
Ode to Heaven .... 366 
An Exhortation .... 367 
Ode to the West Wind . . 367 
An Ode written October, 1819, 
before the Spaniards had re- 
covered their Liberty . . 369 
On the Medusa of Leonardo da 
Vinci in the Florentine Gal- 
lery 369 

The Indian Serenade . . . 370 

To Sophia 370 

Love's Philosophy .... 371 
Poems written in 1820. 
The Sensitive Plant. 

Part First . . . .372 
Part Second .... 374 
Part Third . . . . 375 
Conclusion .... 376 
A Vision of the Sea . . . 377 

The Cloud 380 

To A Skylark .... 381 
Ode to Liberty .... 382 
to c i fear thy kisses, gen- 
tle maiden ') 387 

Arethusa 387 

Song of Proserpine while gath- 
ering Flowers on the Plain 

OF Enna 388 

Hymn of Apollo .... 388 

Hymn of Pan 389 

The Question .... 389 
The Two Spirits: an Allegory 390 
Letter to Maria Gisborne . 390 
Ode to Naples .... 395 
Autumn: a Dirge . . • 398 

Death 398 

Liberty 398 

Summer and Winter . . . 399 
The Tower of Famine . . 399 
An Allegory ('A portal as of 

shadowy adamant ') . . 399 
The World's Wanderers • • 400 
Sonnet ('Ye hasten to the 

grave ! What seek ye there ') 400 
Lines to a Reviewer . . 400 
Time Long Past .... 400 
buona notte .... 400 

Good-Night 401 

Poems written in 1821. 

Dirge for the Yeak • • • 402 



CONTENTS 



Xl 



Time 402 

From the Arabic: an Imitation 403 
Song ('Rarely, rarely, coolest 

thou') 403 

To Night 403 

To C Music, when soft voices 

die') 404 

To (' When passion's trance 

IS overpast') .... 404 

Mutability 404 

Lines (' Far, far away, ye ') 405 

The Fugitives 405 

Lines written on hearing the 
News of the Death of Napo- 
leon 406 

Sonnet : Political Greatness . 406 
A Bridal Song .... 406 

Epithalamium 407 

Another Version . . . 407 
Evening : Ponte al Mare, Pisa 407 

The Aziola 408 

To (' One word is too often 

profaned ') 408 

Remembrance 408 

To Edward Williams . . 409 

To-morrow 410 

Lines (' If I walk in Autumn's 

EVEN ') 410 

A Lament (' world ! life ! 

TIME ! ') 410 

Poems written in 1822. 

Lines C When the lamp is shat- 
tered ') 410 

The Magnetic Lady to her Pa- 
tient 411 

To Jane. 

The Invitation . . . 412 

The Recollection . . • 412 

With a Guitar : To Jane . . 413 

To Jane 415 

Epitaph (' These are two friends 
whose lives were undivided ') 415 

The Isle 415 

A Dirge (' Rough wind, that 

moanest loud'). . . . 415 
Lines written in the Bay of 

Lerici 416 

Fragments. Part I. 

The D-emon of the World. 

Part 1 416 

Part II 420 

Prince Athanase. 

Part I 425 

Part II 427 

The Woodman and the Night- 
ingale 430 

Otho . . . i . . 431 



Tasso 431 

Marenghi 432 

Lines written for Julian and 

Maddalo 435 

Lines written for Prometheus 

Unbound 435 

Lines written for Mont Blanc 435 
Lines written for the Indian 

Serenade 435 

Lines written for the Ode to 

Liberty 436 

Stanza written for the Ode 

written October, 1819 . . 436 
Lines coi^nected with Epipsy- 

CHIDION 436 

Lines written for Adonais . 438 
Lines written for Hellas . . 439 
The Pine Forest op the Cas- 

ciNE NEAR Pisa. First Draft 

OF 'To Jane: The Invitation, 

The Recollection' . . . 440 

Orpheus 441 

FlORDISPINA 443 

The Birth of Pleasure . . 444 
Love, Hope, Desire, and Fear . 444 
A Satire on Satire • . . 445 

GiNEVRA 446 

The Boat on the Serchio . 449 

The Zucca 450 

Lines (' We meet not as we 

PARTED ') 452 

Charles the First. 

Introductory Note. . . 452 

Scene I 453 

Scene II 456 

Scene III .... 464 

Scene IV 465 

Scene V 466 

Fragments of an Unfinished 

Drama 466 

The Triumph of Life . . . 470 
Part II. Minor Fragments. 

Home 480 

Fragment of a Ghost Story . 480 
To Mary ('O Mary dear, that 

you were here ! ') . • • 480 
To Mary (' The world is dreary ') 480 
To Mary ('My dearest Mary, 

wherefore hast thou gone ') . 481 
To William Shelley ('My lost 

William, thou in whom') . 481 
Lines written for the Poem to 

William Shelley . . . 481 
To William Shelley (' Thy lit- 
tle FOOTSTEPS ON THE SANDS ') . 481 
To CONSTANTIA . . , .481 

To Emilia Viviani , > . 482 



CONTENTS 



to (' mighty mind, in whose 

deep stream this age ') . . 482 
Sonnet to Byron .... 482 
A Lost Leader .... 482 

On Keats 482 

To C For me, my friend, if 

NOT that tears DID TREM- 
BLE ') 483 

Milton's Spirit .... 483 

* Mighty eagle' .... 483 
Laurel 483 

* Once more descend ' . . . 483 
l^spiration ..... 483 
To the People of England . 484 
*• What men gain fairly ' . . 484 

Rome 484 

To Italy 484 

'Unrisen splendor' . . . 484 

To Zephyr 484 

' Follow ' 484 

The Rain- Wind .... 484 

Rain 484 

'When soft winds' . . . 484 

The Vine 485 

The Waning Moon . . .485 
To THE Moon (' Bright wanderer, 

FAIR COQUETTE OF HEAVEN ') . 485 

To THE Moon C Art thou pale 

FOR weariness ') . . . 485 
Poetry and Music .... 485 

*A GENTLE story' . . . 485 

The Lady of the South . . 485 
The Tale Untold . . .485 
Wine of Eglantine . . . 485 
A Roman's Chamber . . . 486 
Song of the Furies . . . 486 
'The rude wind is singing' . 486 
Before and After .... 486 
The Shadow of Hell . . 486 

Consequence 486 

A Hate-Song .... 486 

A Face 486 

The Poet's Lover . . . 487 
' I would not be a king ' . . 487 
'is it that in some brighter 

sphere ' 487 

To-day 487 

Love's Atmosphere . . . 487 

Torpor 487 

'Wake the serpent not' , . 487 
' Is not to-day enough ? ' . . 487 
'to thirst and find no fill ' . 487 
Love (' Wealth and dominion 

fade into the mass ') • . . 488 
Music ('I pant for the music 

"WHICH is divine ') . a . . 488 
To One Singing . « « . 488 



To Music ('Silver key of the 

FOUNTAIN OF TEARS ') . . 488 

To Music (' No, Music, thou art 
NOT the "food of Love " ') . 488 

' I FAINT, I PERISH WITH MY LOVE ! ' 489 

To Silence 489 

' Oh, THAT A Chariot of Cloud 

were mine ! ' . . . . 489 
'The fierce beasts' . . . 489 
'He wanders' .... 489 
The Deserts of Sleep . . . 489 

A Dream 489 

The Heart's Tomb . . . .489 
Hope, Fear, and Doubt . . 489 
'Alas ! this is not what I thought 

LIFE was' 490 

Crowned 490 

' Great Spirit ' . . . . 490 
'o thou immortal deity ' . . 490 
'Ye gentle visitations' . . 490 
' My thoughts ' . . . . 490 

TRANSLATIONS. 

From Homer. 

Hymn to Mercury . . .491 
Hymn to Venus .... 503 
Hymn to Castor and Pollux . 504 
Hymn to Minerva .... 504 
Hymn to the Sun . . . 504 
Hymn to the Moon . . . 505 
Hymn to the Earth, Mother of 

All 505 

From Euripides. 

The Cyclops : a Satyric Drama 506 
Epigrams from the Greek. 

Spirit of Plato .... 519 
Circumstance .... 619 

To Stella 519 

Kissing Helena .... 619 
From Moschus. 

I. ' When winds that move not 
ITS calm surface sweep' . 520 
II. Pan, Echo, and the Satyr 520 
III. Fragment of the Elegy on 

THE Death of Bion . . 520 
From Bion. 

Fragment of the Elegy on the 
Death of Adonis . . . 620 
From Virgil. 

The Tenth Eclogue . . .521 
From Dante. 

I. Adapted from a Sonnet in 

THE Vita Nuova . . 522 
II. Sonnet: Dante Alighieri 

to Guido Cavalcanti . 522 
III. The First Canzone of the 

CoNViTO . t . . 522 



CONTENTS 



xiii 



IV. Matilda gathering Flowers 523 

V. Ugolino 524 

From Cavalcanti. 

Sonnet: Guido Cavalcanti to 
Dante Alighieri. . . • 525 
From Calderon. 

Scenes from the Magico Prodi- 

GIOSO. 

Scene I 526 

Scene II 531 

Scene III 533 

Stanzas from Cisma de Ingla- 

TERRA 537 

From Goethe. 

Scenes from Faust. 

Scene I. Prologue in Hea- 
ven 538 

Scene II. May-day Night . 540 

JUVENILIA. 

Verses on a Cat .... 546 

Omens 547 

Epitaphium: Latin Version of 

the Epitaph in Gray's Elegy 547 
In Horologium .... 548 

A Dialogue 548 

To the Moonbeam . . . 549 
The Solitary ..... 549 

To Death 549 

Love's Rose 550 

Eyes . . . . . . .550 

Poems from St. Irvyne, or the 

rosicrucian. 

I. Victoria 551 

II. 'On the dark height of 
Jura ' 551 

III. Sister Rosa ; a Ballad. 652 
rV. St. Irvyne's Tower . . 553 
V- Bereavement . . . 553 
VI. The Drowned Lover . . 554 

Posthumous Fragments of Margaret 
Nicholson. 

War 555 

Fragment supposed to be an 
Epithalamium of Francis Ra- 
vaillac and Charlotte Cor- 
DAY ...... 557 

Despair 558 

Fragment ('Yes! all is past — 

swift time has fled away') . 559 
The Spectral Horseman . . 559 
Melody to a Scene of Former 
Times 560 



Stanza from a Translation op 

the Marseillaise Hymn . . 561 
Bigotry's Victim .... 561 
On an Icicle that clung to the 

Grass of a Grave .... 562 
Love (' Why is it said thou canst 

NOT LIVE ') 562 

On a Fete at Carlton House . 563 
To A Star ...... 563 

To Mary, who died in this Opinion 563 
A Tale of Society as it is from 

Facts, 1811 56S 

To the Republicans of North 

America 565 

To Ireland 565 

On Robert Emmet's Grave . . 566 
The Retrospect: Cwm Elan, 1812 566 
Fragment of a Sonnet to Harriet 568 

To Harriet 568 

Sonnet : To a Balloon laden with 

Knowledge 569 

Sonnet : On Launching Some Bot- 
tles filled with Knowledge 
INTO THE Bristol Channel . 569 
The Devil's Walk: a Ballad . 570 
Fragment of a Sonnet: Fare- 
well TO North Devon . . . 572 
On leaving London for Wales. 572 
The Wandering Jew's Soliloquy . 573 

DOUBTFUL, LOST AND UNPUB- 
LISHED POEMS. VICTOR AND 
CAZIRE. 

Doubtful Poems. 

The Wandering Jew . . 573 

Introduction. . . < 573 
Author's Preface . . . 575 

Canto I 576 

Canto II 579 

Canto III ... . 581 

Canto IV 585 

The Dinner Party Anticipated 589 
The Magic Horse . . .589 
To the Queen of my Heart . 589 

Lost Poems 589 

Unpublished Poems .... 590 
Original Poetry by Victor and Ca- 
ziRE 592 

NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS . . 694 

INDEX OF FIRST LINES ... 643 

INDEX OF TITLES . . . • .647 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

IlT a small southwestern room of the old-fashioned country house named Field Plac^ 
in Sussex, there stands over the fireplace this inscription : — 

' Shrine of the dawning speech and thought 

Of Shelley, sacred be 
To all who bow where Time has brought 
Gifts to Eternity.' 

Here Percy Bysshe Shelley was born, on Saturday, August 4, 1792. He was the eldest 
child of Timothy and Elizabeth (Pilfold) Shelley. In this home he had for playmates, 
as he grew up, four younger sisters, and a brother the youngest of all : and on their 
memories were imprinted some scenes of his early days. He was fond of them, and as a 
schoolboy, when they came in to dessert, would take them on his knee and tell them 
romantic stories out of books on which his own imagination was fed; or he would declaim 
Latin for his father's pleasure; sometimes he led them on tramps through the fields, 
dropping his little sister over inconvenient fences, or he romped with them in the garden, 
not without accident, upsetting his baby brother in the strawberry bed, and being re- 
proached by him as ' bad Bit.' St. Leonard's Wood, off to the northeast of the house, was 
traditionally inhabited by an old Dragon and a headless Spectre, and there was a fabu- 
lous Great Tortoise in Warnham Pond, which he made creatures in their children's 
world; nearer home was the old Snake, the familiar of the garden, unfortunately killed 
by the gardener's scythe; and, these not being marvels enough, a gray alchemist resided 
in the garret. He once dressed his sisters to impersonate fiends, and ran in front with a 
fire-stove flaming with magical liquids, — a sport that readily developed with schoolboy 
knowledge into rude and startling experiments with chemicals and electricity. Altogether 
he was an amiable brother, mingling high animal spirits with a delightful imagination 
and a gentle manner. His young pranks were numerous. He delighted in mystification, 
both verbal and practical; he invented incidents which he told for truth, and he espe- 
cially enjoyed the ruse of a disguise. A single childish answer survives in the anecdote 
that when he set the fagot-stack on fire and was rebuked, he explained that he wanted 
* a little hell of his own.' He also wished to adopt a child, — a fancy which lasted late 
into life, — and thought a small Gypsy tumbler at the door would serve. As child or 
boy, all our recollections of him are pleasant and natural, with touches of harmless mis- 
chief and vivid fancy. There was a spirit of wildness in him. Even before he went 
away to school, while still a fair, slight boy, with long, bright hair and full, blue eyes, 
running about or riding on his pony in the lanes, — where, after spending his own, he 
would stop and borrow money of the servant to give the beggars, — he attracted the 
notice of the villagers at Horsham as a madcap. Toward the end of his boyhood he 
liked to wander out alone at night, but the servant sent to watch him reported that he 
only * took a walk and came back again.' Of all the scenes of this early home life, while 
it was still untroubled, the most attractive is the picture impressed on his five-year-old 
sister, Margaret, whose closest childish memory of him was of the day when, being 



xvi PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



home ill from Eton, he first went out again, and, coming up to the window where she was, 
pressed his face against the pane and gave her a kiss through the glass. 

His education began at the age of six, when he went for the rudiments of Latin and 
Greek to the Rev. Mr. Edwards, a Welsh parson at Warnham, and got traditional Welsh 
instruction from the old man. At ten he was sent away from home to Sion House 
Academy, near Brentford, under Dr. Greenlaw, whom he afterward spoke of ' not without 
respect,' says Hogg, as ' a hard-headed Scotchman, and a man of rather liberal opinions.' 
Shelley was then tall for his years, with a pink and white complexion, curling brown hair 
in abundance, large, prominent blue eyes, — dull in reverie, flashing in feeling, — and an 
expression of countenance, says his cousin and schoolfellow, Medwin, * of exceeding sweet- 
ness and innocence.' He was met in the playground, shut in by four stone walls with a 
single tree in it, by some sixty scholars drawn from the English middle class, who, writes 
Medwin, pounced on every new boy with a zest proportioned to the ordeal each had 
undergone in his turn. The new boy in this case knew nothing of peg-top, leapfrog, 
fives, or cricket. One challenged him to spar, and another to race. His only welcome 
was ' a general shout of derision.' To all this, continues Medwin, ' he made no reply, 
but with a look of disdain written in his countenance, turned his back on his new associ- 
ates, and, when he was alone, found relief in tears.' It was but a step from the boys to 
the masters. If he idled over his books and watched the clouds, or drew those rude 
pines and cedars which he used to scrawl on his manuscripts to the end of his life, a box 
on the ear recalled him; and under English school discipline he had his share of flogging. 
* He would roll on the floor,' says Gellibrand, another schoolmate, ' not from the pain, but 
from a sense of indignity.' He was a quick scholar, but he did not relish the master's 
coarseness in Virgil, and though he was well grounded in his classics, he owed little to 
such a moral discipline as he there received. He was very unhappy, and Medwin does 
not scruple to describe Sion House as ' a perfect hell ' to him. He kept much to himself, 
but he had pleasures of his own. He formed a taste for the wild sixpenny romances of 
the time, full of ghosts, bandits, and enchantments; and his curiosity in the wonders of 
science was awakened by a travelling lecturer, Adam Walker, who exhibited his Orrery 
at the school. He and Medwin boated together on the river, and ran away at times to 
Kew and Richmond, where Shelley saw his first play, Mrs. Jordan in the * Country Girl.' 
Sport, however, played a small part in such a boyhood. * He passed among his school- 
fellows,' says Medwin, ' as a strange and unsocial being, for when a holiday relieved us 
from our tasks, and the other boys were engaged in such sports as the narrow limits of 
our prison court allowed, Shelley, who entered into none of them, would pace backwards 
and forwards, — I think I see him now, — along the southern wall.' Rennie, another 
schoolmate, from whom comes the anecdote that Shelley once threw a small boy at his 
tormentors, adds that, * if treated with kindness he was very amiable, noble, high-spirited, 
and generous.' It is noteworthy that at Sion House he first developed the habit of sleep- 
walking, for which he was punished. 

A single fragment of autobiography softens the harshness of these two years. It is 
Shelley's description of his first boy friendship : — 

* I remember forming an attachment of this kind at school. I cannot recall to my 
memory the precise epoch at which this took place; but I imagine that it must have 
been at the age of eleven or twelve. The object of these sentiments was a boy about my 
own age, of a character eminently generous, brave and gentle; and the elements of 
human feeling seem to have been, from his birth, genially compounded within him. 
There was a delicacy and simplicity in his manners inexpressibly attractive. It has 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xvii 

never been my fortune to meet with him since my schoolboy days; but either I confound 
my present recollection with the delusions of past feelings, or he is now a source of 
honor and utility to every one around him. The tones of his voice were so soft and 
winning that every word pierced into my heart; and their pathos was so deep that in 
listening to him the tears have involuntarily gushed from my eyes. Such was the being 
for whom I first experienced the sacred sentiments of friendship. I remember in my 
simplicity writing to my mother a long account of his admirable qualities and my own 
devoted attachment. I suppose she thought me out of my wits, for she returned no 
answer to my letter. I remember we used to walk the whole play-hours up and down by 
some moss-covered palings, pouring out our hearts in youthful talk. We used to speak 
of the ladies with whom we were in love, and I remember that our usual practice was to 
confirm each other in the everlasting fidelity in which we had bound ourselves toward 
them and toward each other. I recollect thinking my friend exquisitely beautiful. 
Every night when we parted to go to bed we kissed each other like children, as we still 
were.' 

Shelley went up to Eton, July 29, 1804, being then almost twelve. Dr. Goodall, an 
amiable and dignified gentleman, was Head Master, and was succeeded in 1809 by Dr. 
Keate, renowned for flogging, who was previously Master of the Lower School. Shelley 
went into the house of a writing master, Hecker, and later into that of George Bethel, 
remembered as the dullest tutor of the school. He found a larger body of scholars, 
some five hundred, a more regulated fagging system, and a change of masters ; but if he 
was better off than before, it was because of his own growth and of the greater scale of 
the school, which afforded more freedom and variety and better companionship. He 
refused to fag, and he brought into the world of boyhood a compound of tastes and 
qualities that made him strange. ' He stood apart from the whole school,' says one of 
his mates, * a being never to be forgotten.' In particular the union in him of natural 
gentleness with a high spirit that could be exasperated to the point of frenzy exposed 
him to attack; but he was dangerous, and once, according to his own account, struck a 
fork through the hand of a boy, — an act which he spoke of in after-life as ' almost in- 
voluntary,' and ' done on the spur of anguish.' He was called ' Mad Shelley ' by the 
boys, who banded against him. Dowden describes their fun: — 

'Sometimes he would escape by flight, and before he was lost sight of the gamesome 
youths would have chased him in full cry and have enjoyed the sport of a " Shelley-bait " 
up town. At other times escape was impossible, and then he became desperate. " I 
have seen him," wrote a schoolfellow, " surrounded, hooted, baited like a maddened bull, 
and at this distance of time I seem to hear ringing in my ears the cry which Shelley was 
wont to utter in his paroxysm of revengeful anger." In dark and miry winter evenings 
it was the practice to assemble under the cloisters previous to mounting to the Upper 
School. To surround " Mad Shelley " and " nail " him with a ball slimy with mud, was a 
favorite pastime; or his name would suddenly be sounded through the cloisters, in an 
instant to be taken up by another and another voice, until hundreds joined in the clamor, 
and the roof would echo and reecho with " Shelley ! Shelley ! Shelley ! " Then a space 
would be opened, in which as in a ring or alley the victim must stand to endure his tor- 
ture ; or some urchin would dart in behind and by one dexterous push scatter at Shelley's 
feet the books which he had held under his arm ; or mischievous hands would pluck at 
his garments, or a hundred fingers would point at him from every side, while still the 
outcry " Shelley ! Shelley ! " rang against the walls. An access of passion — the desired 
result — would follow, which, declares a witness of these persecutions, "made his eyes 
flash like a tiger's, his cheeks grow pale as death, his limbs quiver." * 



xviii PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

Shelley, however, though private, was not a recluse. He took part in the school life 
on its public side as well as in his studies. He boated, marched in the Montem proces- 
sion as pole-bearer or corporal, and declaimed a speech of Cicero on an Election Monday. 
He once appeared in the boys' prize ring, but panic surprised him in the second round. 
He became an excellent Latin versifier and began that thoughtful acquaintance with 
Lucretius and Pliny's Natural History, which afterwards showed its effect in his early 
writings, and he learned something of Condorcet, Franklin and Godwin. Why he was 
called the ' atheist,' as the tradition is, cannot be made out, as there is no other trace of 
the word in the Eton vocabulary. His scientific interest was reinforced by a visit of the 
same itinerary Adam Walker who first revealed the mechanism of the heavens to him; 
and he bought an electrical machine from the philosopher's assistant, which the dull 
tutor. Bethel, unexpectedly felt the force of, when he undertook to investigate his 
lodger's instruments for ' raising the devil,' as Shelley boldly proclaimed his occupation 
to be at the moment. The willow stump which he set on fire with gunpowder and a 
burning glass is still shown, and there are other waifs of legend or anecdote which show 
his divided love for the ghosts of the cheap romances and incantations of his own inven- 
tion. Chemistry, his favorite amusement, was forbidden him, and from these escapades 
of a youthful search for knowledge, doubtless, some of his undefined troubles with the 
masters arose. In the six years he passed at Eton his native intellectual impulse was 
the strongest element in his growth. He began authorship, and there wrote ' Zastrozzi,' 
his first published story, and with the proceeds of that romance he is said to have paid 
for the farewell breakfast he gave to his Eton friends at the same time that he presented 
them with books for keepsakes. 

The reminiscences of these friends, several of whom have spoken of him, relieve the 
wilder traits of his Eton career. Halliday's description is the most full and heartfelt : — 

* Many a long and happy walk have I had with him in the beautiful neighborhood of 
dear old Eton. We used to wander for hours about Clewer, Frogmore, the Park at 
Windsor, the Terrace; and I was a delighted and willing listener to his marvellous stories 
of fairyland and apparitions and spirits and haunted ground; and his speculations were 
then (for his mind was far more developed than mine) of the world beyond the grave. 
Another of his favorite rambles was Stoke Park, and the picturesque graveyard, where 
Gray is said to have written his " Elegy," of which he was very fond. I was myself far 
too young to form any estimate of character, but I loved Shelley for his kindliness and 
affectionate ways. He was not made to endure the rough and boisterous pastime of Eton, 
and his shy and gentle nature was glad to escape far away to muse over strange fancies; 
for his mind was reflective, and teeming with deep thought. His lessons were child's 
play to him. . . . His love of nature was intense, and the sparkling poetry of his mind 
shone out of his speaking eyes when he was dwelling on anything good or great. He 
certainly was not happy at Eton, for his was a disposition that needed especial personal 
superintendence to watch and cherish and direct all his noble aspirations and the re- 
markable tenderness of his heart. He had great moral courage and feared nothing but 
what was base, and false, and low.' 

Such guidance as he had he received from Dr. Lind, a physician of Windsor, a man of 
humane disposition and independent thought, but of unconventional ways. Shelley always 
spoke of him in later years with veneration, and idealized him in his verse, but his influ- 
ence can be traced only slightly in the habit Shelley learned from him of addressing let- 
ters to strangers. At one time, when Shelley was recovering from a fever at Field 
Place, and thought, on the information of a servant, that his father was contemplating 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xix 

sending him to an asylum, he sent for Dr. Lind, who came, and, at all events, relieved 
him of his fears. 

While Shelley was still an Eton schoolboy Medwin spent the Christmas vacation of 
1809 at Field Place, and recalls walks with him in St. Leonard's Wood, and snipe-shoot- 
ing at Field Place Pond. He envied the marksmanship of Shelley, who was a good shot, 
pistol-shooting being a favorite amusement with him through life. Shelley was already 
in the full flow of his early literary faculty, which was first practised in collaboration with 
his friends. At Eton he at one time composed dramatic scenes with a schoolmate, and 
acted them before a third lower-form boy in the same house. His sister Helen says that 
he also sent an original play to Mathews, the comedian. He had written * Zastrozzi/ 
and he now began a similar romance with Medwin, * The Nightmare,' and also a story, 
having the Wandering Jew for its hero, which was immediately reworked by the joint 
authors into the juvenile poem of that title. By Apiil 1, 1810, he had completed his 
second published romance, ' St. Irvyne,' and before fall came he had, in company with his 
sister Elizabeth, produced the poems of ' Victor and Cazire,' of which he had 1480 copies 
printed at Horsham. Sir Bysshe, his grandfather, is said to have given him money to 
pay this village printer, but just how Shelley used this liberality is unknown. Shelley 
was always in haste to publish. He had sent ' The Wandering Jew ' to Campbell, who 
returned it with discouragement, but the manuscript was, nevertheless, put into the hands 
of Ballantyne & Co., of Edinburgh. Shelley had begun, too, his knight-errantry in be- 
half of poor and oppressed authors, and while at Eton had accepted bills for the purpose 
of bringing out a work on Sweden, by a Mr. Brown, who, to take his own account, had 
been forced to leave the navy in consequence of the injustice of his superior officers. He 
undertook also on Medwin's introduction a correspondence with Felicia Brown, after- 
wards well known as Mrs. Hemans, but it was stopped on the interference of her mother, 
who was alarmed by its skeptical character. These were all noticeable beginnings, mark- 
ing traits and habits that were to continue in Shelley's life; but the most important of all 
the events of the year was the attachment which was formed between him and his cousin, 
Harriet Grove, during a summer visit of the Grove family to Field Place, and a con- 
tinuance of the intimacy at London, where the whole party, excepting Shelley's father, 
immediately went. Shelley's attraction toward his cousin, who is described as a very 
beautiful girl, amiable and of a lively disposition, was sincere if not deep. The match 
was seriously considered by the two families, and at first no hindrance was thrown in its 
way. 

Shelley went up to Oxford in the fall of 1810 at the age of eighteen, with a cheerful 
and happy mind. He had signed his name in the books of University College, where his 
father had been before him, on April 10, and, returning to Eton, had finished there in 
good standing. His father accompanied him to his old college and saw him installed; 
and Mr. Slatter, then just beginning business as an Oxford publisher, a son of Timothy's 
old host at the Inn, remembered a kindly call from him in company with Shelley, in the 
course of which he said: 'My son here has a literary turn. He is already an author, and 
do, pray, indulge him in his printing freaks.' Shelley had already a publisher in London, 
Stockdale, afterwards notorious, whom he had induced to take the 1480 copies of the 
poems of * Victor and Cazire ' off the hands of the Horsham printer; but Stockdale, how- 
ever, undertook * St. Irvyne,' and brought it out at the end of the year, and he considered 
*The Wandering Jew,' which Ballantyne had declined; but events moved too rapidly to 
ndmit of his issuing the poem. 

Shelley found at Oxford the liberty and seclusion best fitted for his active and explor- 



XX PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



ing mind. There is no safer place than college for a youth whose mind is confused and 
excited by the crude elements of new knowledge; the chaos of thought, on which Shelley's 
geuius sat on brood, would naturally take form and order there, in the slow leisure of 
four years of mingled acquisition, reflection and growth ; but such fortune was denied to 
him. He maintained friendly relations with his old Eton companions, though he was 
intimate with none of them; but he was absorbed in the first revelation of dawning 
thought and knowledge, and needed an intellectual auditor. He found his listener in 
Hogg, — *a pearl within an oyster shell,' he afterwards called him, — a fellow-student 
from York, destined for the law. Hogg developed into a cynical humorist; but to 
his gross nature and more worldly experience, Shelley was the one flash, in a lifetime, of 
tho ideal. He always regarded him as a spirit from another world, whose adventures in 
his journey through mortal afiPairs necessarily took on the aspect of a tragi-comedy. Yet 
he was devoted to him to a point singular in so opposite a character, and he told his story 
of Shelley out of real elements, with fidelity to his own impression, though touching it 
with a grotesqueness that is, in its effect, not far from caricature. Hogg first met Shelley 
in the common dining-hall. They fell into talk, as strangers, over the comparative merits 
of German and Italian literature ; and the conversation, being carried on with such ani- 
mation that they were left alone before they were aware of it, Hogg invited his inter- 
locutor to continue the discussion at his room, where the subject was at once dropped on 
their mutual confession that one knew as little of the German as the other of the Italian 
which he was defending. Shelley, however, was furnished with large discourse, and led 
the talk on to the wonders of science while Hogg scanned his guest. 

' His figure was slight and fragile, and yet his bones and joints were large and strong. 
He was tall, but he stooped so much that he seemed of a low stature. His clothes were 
expensive, and made according to the most approved mode of the day ; but they were 
tumbled, rumpled and unbrushed. His gestures were abrupt, and sometimes violent, 
occasionally even awkward, yet more frequently gentle and graceful. His complexion 
was delicate and almost feminine, of the purest red and white ; yet he was tanned and 
freckled by exposure to the sun, having passed the autumn, as he said, in shooting. His 
features, his whole face, and particularly his head, were in fact unusually small ; yet the 
last appeared of a remarkable bulk, for his hair was long and bushy, and in fits of absence, 
and in the agonies (if I may use the word) of anxious thought, he often rubbed it fiercely 
with his hands, or passed his fingers quickly through his locks unconsciously, so that it 
was singularly wild and rough. . . . His features were not symmetrical (the moutn per- 
haps excepted), yet was the effect of the whoie extremely powerful. They breathed an 
animation, a fire and enthusiasm, a vivid and preternatural intelligence that I never met 
with in any other countenance. J^or was the moral expression less beautiful than the 
intellectual. 

The one blemish was the shrill, harsh, discordant voice, which ceased when the speaker 
hurried away to attend a lecture on mineralogy, — ' About stones, about stones,' he 
said, with downcast look and melancholy tones, on his return at the end of the hour. 
The evening continued with talk on chemistry, and at last on metaphysics and the prob- 
lems of the soul, as such youthful college talks will do. * I lighted him downstairs,' says 
Hogg, * and soon heard him running through the quiet quadrangle in this still night. 
The sound became afterwards so familiar to my ear that I still seem to hear Shelley's 
hasty steps.' 

Such was Hogg's first night, and the others were like it, and are told with similar 
graphic power. Peacock corrects the detail of Shelley's shrill voice, while acknowledg- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH rxi 

ing the defect, which was * chiefly observable when he spoke under excitement. Then 
his voice was not only dissonant, like a jarring string, but he spoke ia sharp fourths, the 
most unpleasiug sequence of sound that can fall on the human ear ; but it was scarcely 
so when he spoke calmly, and not at all when he read. On the contrary, he seemed then 
to have his voice under perfect command ; it was good both in time and tone ; it was low 
and soft, but clear, distinct and expressive.' The matchless disorder of Shelley's room, 
with its various studious interests of books and apparatus betraying the self-guided seeker 
in knowledge, though similarly overcharged in the description, reflects the state of Shel- 
ley's mind. He was completely absorbed in the intellectual life. He read incessantly, 
as was his custom throughout life, at all times and in all places, — in bed, at meals, or in 
the street, threading even the crowds of London thoroughfares with a book before his 
eyes. His faith in great minds was an intense feeling. When he took up a classic for 
the first time 'his cheeks glowed, his eyes became bright, his whole frame trembled.' 
He approached Hume and Locke in the same way. What he read was thought over and 
discussed in the long evenings. Life went on with him, however, as it does even in revo- 
lutionary periods, with much matter of fact. He was indifferent to his meals, and 
showed already that abstemiousness which characterized him. Bread was his favorite 
food ; perhaps because it was handiest, and could be eaten with least interruption to his 
pursuits. In London he would go into a shop and return with a loaf, which he broke in 
two, giving the fragment to his astonished companion. Sweets, fruits and salads were 
relished, but he cared less for animal food, which he afterwards gave up wholly in his 
vegetarian days. Wine he took rarely, and much diluted, and, indeed, he had no taste 
for it. In his morals he was pure, and he was made uneasy by indelicacy, which he 
always resented with a maiden feeling. He was given to a bizarre kind of fun in high 
spirits, and occasionally to real gayety. He was always capable of a childlike light- 
heartedness, and from his boyhood he would sing by himself. These traits, which Hogg 
describes, are gathered from a longer period than their college days. At Oxford his 
physical regime was sufficient, if not hearty. He was well and strong. 

Every afternoon the friends took a long walk across country, and Shelley always car- 
ried his pistols for practice in shooting. Several of their adventures on these walks are 
recorded, and are too characteristic to be wholly passed over. The picture of him feed- 
ing a little girl, mean, dull and unattractive, whom he found oppressed by cold and hun- 
ger and the vague feeling of abandonment, and drew, not without a gentle violence, to a 
cottage near by to get some milk for her, is one of the most vivid. ' It was a strange 
spectacle to watch the young poet whilst . . . holding the wooden bowl in one hand and 
the wooden spoon in the other, and kneeling on his left knee, that he might more cer- 
tainly attain to her mouth, he urged and encouraged the torpid and timid child to eat.' 
His adventure with the gypsy boy and girl, also, is pretty. He had met them a day or 
two before, and, on seeing him again, the children, with a laughing salutation, darted 
back into the tent and Shelley after them. ' He placed a hand on each round, rough 
head, spoke a few kind words to the skulking children, and then returned not less pre- 
cipitately, and with as much ease and accuracy as if he had been a dweller in tents from 
the hour when he first drew air and milk to that day.' As he walked off he rolled an 
orange under their feet. On returning from these excursions Shelley would curl up on 
the rug, with his head to the fire where the heat was hottest, and sleep for three or four 
hours ; then he woke and took supper and talked till two, which Hogg had sternly fixed 
as the hour to retire. 

Hogg describes Shelley's figure rather than his life. He had come up to Oxford with 



xxii PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

many plans already on foot, but he constantly found something new to do. The practical 
instinct in him was as strong as the intellectual. He was in haste to act, and not merely 
from that necessity for expression which belongs to literary genius, but with that passion 
for realizing ideas which belongs to the reformer. In his early career the latter quality 
seems to predominate because its effects were obvious, and, besides, literary progress is a 
slower matter ; but both elements worked together equally in developing his character 
and determining his career. Stockdale had withdrawn the poems of 'Victor and Cazire,* 
but he was publishing ' St. Irvyne,' and considering ' The Wandering Jew.' The Oxford 
printers undertook ' The Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson,' a new collec- 
tion of poems, and published it. These verses, in which only the slight burlesque 
element, due to Hogg, was contemporary, represent the results on Shelley's imagination 
and taste of a really earlier period, and belong with ' Zastrozzi,' and ' St. Irvyne.' His 
poetic taste was improving, but the ferment of his mind was now mainly intellectual, 
and the new elements showed their influence principally in the propagandism of his spec- 
ulative opinions, his sympathy with the agitators for political reform, and his efforts to 
be of service to obscure writers. He continued to be interested in Brown's ' Sweden,* 
and on his last day at Oxford, became joint security with the publishers for £800 — a 
loss which fell upon them — to bring out the work. He also encouraged the publication 
(and may have undertaken to help pay for it) of a volume of poems by Miss Janetfa* 
Phillips, in whom he thought he had discovered a schoolgirl genius like Felicia Brown. 
He was more deeply interested in the case of Finnerty, an Irish agitator imprisoned for 
political publications, and published a poem, now lost, for his benefit, and subscribed his 
guinea to the fund for his relief ; and, in connection with this case also he first addressed 
Leigh Hunt, urging an association of men of liberal principles for mutual protection. 
His acquaintance with Hume and Locke, and the writings of the English reformers, led 
him to skeptical views. He informed Stockdale of a novel (presumably 'Leonora,* 
which was printed but not published, and is now unknown, in which Hogg may have had 
the principal share) ' principally constructed to convey metaphysical and political opin- 
ions by way of conversation,' and also of ' A Metaphysical Essay in support of Atheism, 
which he intended to promulgate throughout the University.' The most important expres- 
sion of these new views was made in his letters to his cousin, Harriet Grove, to the alarm 
of herself and her parents, who communicated with Shelley's father, and broke off the 
match. Stockdale, also, found it to be his duty to inform Shelley's father of his son's 
dangerous principles, and at the same time to express injurious ideas of Hogg's influence 
and character. When Shelley returned home at Christmas, between the anxiety of his 
family over his state of mind and his own feeling of exasperation and sense of injustice 
in the check given to his love, he had little enjoyment. On his return to Oxford his intel- 
lectual life reached a climax in the publication of his tract, ' The Necessity of Atheism,* 
which he seems to have intended as a circular letter for that irresponsible correspondence 
with strangers of which he had learned the habit from Dr. Lind. He strewed copies of 
this paper in Slatter's bookstore, where they remained on sale twenty minutes before dis- 
covery ; but the friends who at once summoned him to remonstrate were shocked when 
he told them that he had sent copies to every bishop on the bench, to the vice-chancellor, 
and to each of the Heads of Houses. The college authorities did not at once act, but on 
March 25, they assembled and summoned him. Hogg describes what followed : — 

* It was a fine spring morning, on Lady Day, in the year 1811, when I went to Shelley's 
room. He was absent, but before I had collected our books he rushed in. He was ter- 
ribly agitated. I anxiously inquired what had happened. " I am expelled," he said, as 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxiii 

soon as he had recovered himself a little, " I am expelled ! I was sent for suddenly a 
few minutes ago. I went to our common room, where I found our Master and two or 
three of the Fellows. The Master produced a copy of the little syllabus, and asked me 
whether I was the author of it. He spoke in a rude, abrupt and insolent tone. I begged 
to be informed for what purpose he put the question. No answer was given, but the 
Master loudly and angrily repeated, * Are you the author of this book ? ' * If I can 
judge from your manner,' I said, * you are resolved to punish me if I should acknowledge 
that it is my work. If you can prove that it is, produce your evidence. It is neither 
just nor lawful to interrogate me in such a case and for such a purpose. Such proceed- 
ings would become a court of inquisitors, but not free men in a free country.' * Do you 
choose to deny that this is your composition ? ' the Master reiterated in the same rude 
and angry voice." Shelley complained much of his violence and ungentlemanly deport- 
ment, saying, " I have experienced tyranny and injustice before, and I well know what 
vulgar violence is, but I never met with such unworthy treatment. I told him calmly, 
but firmly, that I was determined not to answer any questions respecting the publication. 
He immediately repeated his demands. I persisted in my refusal, and he said furiously, 
* Then you are expelled, and I desire that you will quit the college early to-morrow 
morning at the latest.' One of the Fellows took up two papers and handed one of them 
to me, — here it is." He produced a regular sentence of expulsion drawn up in due form, 
under the seal of the college. ... I have been with Shelley in many trying situations 
of his after-life, but I never saw him so deeply shocked or so cruelly agitated as on 
this occasion. . . . He sat on the sofa, repeating with convulsive vehemence the words 
" expelled ! expelled ! " his head shaking with emotion, and his whole frame quiver- 
ing.' 

Hogg immediately sent word that he was as much concerned in the affair as Shelley, 
and received straightway the same sentence. In the afternoon a notice was publicly 
posted on the hall door, announcing the expulsion of the two students ' for contumaciously 
refusing to answer questions proposed to them, and for also repeatedly declining to disa- 
vow a publication entitled " Necessity of Atheism." ' That afternoon Shelley visited his 
old Eton friend, Halliday, saying, ' Halliday, I am come to say good-by to you, if you are 
not afraid to be seen with me.' The next morning the two friends left Oxford for Lon- 
don. Medwin tells how, a day or two later, at four o'clock in the morning, Shelley 
knocked at his door in Gardin* Court in the Temple. * I think I hear his cracked voice, 
with his well-known pipe, " Medw«in, let me in ! I am expelled ! " Here followed a loud 
half-hysteric laugh, and the repetition of the words, " I am expelled," with the addition 
of " for atheism." ' He and Hogg took lodgings in London, but in a few weeks the lat- 
ter went home and left Shelley alone. 

If Shelley was shocked. Field Place was troubled. His father demanded that he 
should return home, place himself submissively under a tutor, give up all connection 
with Hogg, apologize to the authorities at Oxford, and profess conformity to the church; 
otherwise he should have neither home nor money. Timothy Shelley was not a harsh 
man or an unfeeling father; he was kind-hearted, irascible and obstinate, inconsequential 
in his talk, and destitute of tact, with character and principles neither better nor worse 
than respectability required. He received the world from Providence, and his opinions 
from the Duke of Norfolk, and was content. He was a country squire and satisfied his 
constituents, his tenants, his family, and his servants, and all that was his except his 
father and his eldest son. It is pleasant to recall the fact that long after Shelley was 
dead his old nurse received her Christmas gift at the homestead to the end of her days. 



xxiv PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

Timothy Shelley was both alarmed and scandalized by his son's conduct, and he was evi- 
dently sincerely concerned. He did not understand it, and he did not know what to do. 
At this time, too, Shelley was an important person to his family, which had recently 
obtained wealth and title. He was looked to, as the heir, to maintain and secure its 
position, and the entail was already made for a large portion of the estate, — £80,000, 
although a remainder of £120,000 was still unsettled. Old Sir Bysshe, who had been made 
a baronet in 1806, was the founder of this prosperity. If he was an abler man than 
Timothy, whom he was accustomed to curse roundly to his face, he was a worse man. 
He was miserly, sordid, and vulgar in his tastes. He professed himself an atheist, and 
though he appears to have favored his grandson, when young, he had set an example 
which profited him ill. He was born in America, where his father had emigrated early 
in the last century and had married with a stock not now traceable, so that there were 
some drops of American blood in Shelley's veins. On his father's return to England, 
owing to the lunacy of his elder brother, to take charge of the small family place at Fen 
Place, Bysshe, then eighteen years old, went with him, and began the career of a fortune- 
hunter. He twice eloped with wealthy heiresses, and their property was the nucleus of 
the estate he built up. Two of his daughters followed his example in their mode of 
marrying. He had devoted himself to founding a family and had succeeded, and at the 
end of his days he was deeply concerned in the fate of the settlements. There were 
reasons, therefore, for making Shelley take a view of his place more in harmony with 
family expectations. 

Shelley, on his side, was not lacking in family affection. He was tenderly attached to 
his sisters, and Hogg relates that at Oxford he never received a letter from them or his 
mother without manifest pleasure. He certainly left in their minds only pleasant mem- 
ories of himself. He had a boy's regard for his father in early years, and his letters are, 
if firm, not deficient in respect. The only sign of distrust up to this period was the sus- 
picion, already mentioned, that his father intended sending him to a lunatic asylum at 
the time when he was home from Eton ill with fever. But, however warm his home 
affections were, he was not, at the age of eighteen, prepared to abandon on command his 
mind and what was to him moral duty; and he declined to accede to his father's terms. 
His relatives, the Med wins and Groves, helped him in London, and his sisters, who were 
at school, sent him their pocket money by a schoolmate. In the course of six weeks, 
after several ineffectual letters and interviews, a settlement was brought about, appar- 
ently through a maternal uncle, Captain Pilfold, who lived near Field Place and was 
always Shelley's friend; and it was agreed that Shelley should have £200 a year and 
entire freedom. This was toward the middle of May, and early in June he returned 
home, where he was well received, though he found his favorite sister, Elizabeth, whom 
he hoped Hogg might marry, less confiding in her brother than before these events. He 
was especially struck by the fact that the principles of his parents were social conven- 
tions, and that conflict with his own ideas did not proceed from any real convictions. 

In Shelley's enforced absence from his family an unknown opportunity had been given 
for blasting their hopes more effectual than any concession that could have been made 
which would have kept him near them. He had become acquainted with Harriet West- 
brook in the Christmas vacation before he left Oxford. She was a schoolmate of his 
sisters at Mrs. Fenning's, Clapham, like Sion House a middle-class school; and he had 
been commissioned to take her a gift. A correspondence sprang up, which, like all of 
Shelley's correspondences, was confined to his opinions, as he was still in the missionary 
stage of conviction. When he was living in London, it was she who acted between him 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxv 

and his sisters and brought him their savings. There was also an elder Miss Westbrook, 
Eliza, thirty years old, who was very kind to Shelley; she took him to walk with Harriet, 
invited him to call, and was on all occasions ready to bring them together, guided the 
conversation upon love, and left them alone. Mr. Westbrook, Shelley noticed, was very 
civil. He was a retired tavern-keeper. Shelley's interest was the more engaged, because 
Harriet was reproached at school for being friendly with a youth of his principles, and 
suffered petty annoyances. She was a pretty, bright, amiable girl, sixteen, slightly 
formed, with regular features, a pink and white complexion uncommonly brilliant, and 
pure, brown hair — 'like a poet's dream,' says Helen; and with this youthful bloom she 
had a frank air, grace, and a pleasant lively laugh. But Shelley, though interested in 
his 'little friend,' as he called her, was untouched; and when he went down to his uncle Pil- 
fold's in May, in search of reconciliation with his father, he there met another to admire, 
Miss Hitchener, a school-teacher of twenty-nine, who was to hold a high place in his 
esteem, and with whom he began his customary correspondence on metaphysics, educa- 
tion, and the causes that interested him. He remained at home a mouth, and wrote 
apparently his lost poem on the fete at Carlton House, and in July went to Wales to visit 
his cousins, the Groves. He was taken soon after his arrival with a brief though violent 
nervous illness, but recovered, and was greatly delighted with the mountain scenery, then 
new to him. In his rambles in the neighborhood he met with that adventure with the 
beggar which seems to have impressed him deeply. He gave the man something and fol- 
lowed him a mile, trying to enter into talk with him. Finally the beggar said, ' I see by 
your dress that you are a rich man. They have injured me and mine a million times. 
Y^ou appear to me well intentioned, but I have no security of it while you live in such a 
house as that, or wear such clothes as those. It would be charity to quit me.' 

The Westbrooks also were in Wales, and letters came from Harriet, who wrote de- 
spondently, complained of unhappiness at home, dwelt upon suicide, and at last asked 
Shelley's protection. ' Her letters,' says Shelley, writing two months later to Miss 
Hitchener, ' became more and more gloomy. At length one assumed a tone of such de- 
spair, as induced me to leave Wales precipitately. I arrived in London. I was shocked 
at observing the alteration in her looks. Little did I divine its cause. She had become 
violently attached to me, and feared that I should not return her attachment. Prejudice 
made the confession painful. It was impossible to avoid being much affected; I promised 
to unite my fate to hers. I stayed in London several days, during which she recovered 
her spirits. I promised at her bidding to come again to London.' This was in the early 
part of August. He wrote to Hogg, whom he had previously told that he was not in 
love, detailing the affair, and discussed with him whether he should marry Harriet, or, as 
she was ready to do, should disregard an institution which he had learned from Godwin 
to consider irrational. He went home and did not anticipate that any decision would be 
necessary at present. Within a week Harriet called him back because her father would 
force her to return to school. He went to her, took the course of honor, and in the last 
week of August went with her to Edinburgh, where they were married, August 28. He 
was nineteen, and she sixteen years of age. 

Shelley was no sooner married than he began to feel the pecuniary embarrassments 
which were to become familiar to him. He had never been without money, except for 
the six weeks in London after leaving Oxford, and he did not anticipate that his father 
would cut him off. He had borrowed the money for his journey from the elder Medwin^ 
and now, his quarterly allowance not being paid, he was kept from want only by a kindly 
remittance from his uncle Pilfold. Hogg had joined them at Edinburgh, but Shelley 



xxvi PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

was anxious to make a settlement, and early in October the party went to York, where 
Shelley left Harriet in Hogg's charge while he went on to his uncle's to seek some com- 
munication with his father. Within a week he returned, unsuccessful, to York, whither 
Harriet's elder sister, Eliza, had preceded him. He found on his arrival that Hogg had 
undertaken to intrigue with Harriet. A month later, in a letter to Miss Hitchener he 
gave an account of the interview he had with him: — 

* We walked to the fields beyond York. I desired to know fully the account of this 
affair. I heard it from him and I believe he was sincere. All that I can recollect of 
that terrible day is that I pardoned him, — fully, freely pardoned him; that I would still 
be a friend to him, and hoped soon to convince him how lovely virtue was; that his crime, 
not himself, was the object of my detestation ; that I value a human being not for what 
it has been, but for what it is; that I hoped the time would come when he would regard 
this horrible error with as much disgust as I did. He said little. He was pale, terror- 
struck, remorseful.' 

After this incident Shelley remained in York but a few days, and in November left 
without giving Hogg any intimation of his intentions. ' I leave him,' wrote Shelley, * to 
his fate. Would that I could rescue him.' 

He took a cottage at Keswick. He had already written to the Duke of Norfolk, who 
had before been brought in as a peacemaker between father and son, soliciting his inter- 
vention, aiid was invited to Grey stoke by the duke, where he spent with his family a few 
days at the expense of almost his last guinea. He wrote to the elder Med win: * We are 
now so poor as to be actually in danger of every day being deprived of the necessaries of 
life.' In December Mr. Westbrook allowed Harriet £200 a year, and in January Shelley's 
father made an equal allowance to him, to prevent ' his cheating strangers.' At Grey- 
stoke he had met Calvert, who introduced him to Southey. * Here is a man at Keswick,* 
wrote Southey, ' who acts upon me as my own ghost would do; he is just what I was in 
1794.' Shelley had long regarded Southey with admiration, and ^ Thalaba ' remained a 
favorite book with him. But, although Southey was kind to him, contributing to his 
domestic comfort in material ways, the acquaintance resulted in a diminution of Shelley's 
regard. On January 2 he introduced himself to Godwin by letter, according to his 
custom, having only then heard that the writer whom he really revered was still alive, 
and he interested the grave philosopher very earnestly in his welfare. Meanwhile he 
had not been idle. Through all these events, indeed, he must have kept busy with his 
pen. He designed a poem representing the perfect state of man, gathered his verses to 
make a volume, worked on his metaphysical essays, and, especially, composed a novel, 
' Hubert Cauvin,' to illustrate the causes of the failure of the French Revolution. At 
Keswick, too, occurred the first of the personal assaults on Shelley, which tried the be- 
lief of his friends. He had begun the use of laudanum, as a relief from pain, but he 
had recovered from the illness which discloses this fact, before the incident occurred. On 
January 19, at seven o'clock at night, Shelley, hearing an unusual noise, went to the door 
and was struck to the ground and stunned by a blow. His landlord, alarmed by the noise, 
came to the scene, and the assailant fled. The affair was publisVied in the local paper, 
and is spoken of by Harriet as well as Shelley. Some of the neighbors disbelieved in it, 
but his simple chemical experiments had excited their minds and made him an object of 
suspicion, and it is to be said that the country was in a disturbed state. Shelley's thoughts 
were already turned to Ireland as a field of practical action, and, his private affairs being 
now satisfactorily settled, he determined to go there and work for the cause of Catholic 
emancipation. At Keswick he wrote his * Address to the Irish People,' and in spite of 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxvii 

the dissuasion of Calvert and Godwin be started with his wife in the first days of Feb- 
ruary, 1812, and arrived in Dublin on the 12th. 

Shelley sent bis ' Address ' to the printer, and within two weeks had fifteen hundred 
copies on hand, which he distributed freely, sending them to sixty coffee-houses, flinging 
them from his balcony, giving them away on the street, and sending out a man with 
them. He wrote also ' Proposals for an Association,' published March 2. He had pre- 
sented a letter from Godwin to Curran, and made himself known to the leaders. On 
February 28, at a public meeting which O'Connell addressed, Shelley also spoke for an 
hour, and received mingled hisses and applause, — applause for the wrongs of Ireland, 
hisses for his plea for religious toleration. He also became acquainted with Mr. Lawless, 
a follower of Curran, and wrote passages of Irish history for a proposed work by him. 
Meanwhile Godwin sent letters dissuading him from his course, and finally wound up, — 
' Shelley, you are preparing a scene of blood.' Shelley's Irish principles were but 
remotely connected with the practical politics of the hour, and consisted, in the main, of 
very general convictions in regard to equality, toleration, and the other elements of 
republican government. He did compose, out of French sources, a revolutionary ' De- 
claration of Rights.' He was soon discouraged by the character of the men and of the 
situation. His heart, too, was touched by the state of the people, for he engaged at once 
in that practical philanthropy which was always a large part of his personal life. ' A 
poor boy,' he writes, ' whom I found starving with his mother, in a hiding place of unut- 
terable filth and misery, — whom I rescued and was about to teach, has been snatched on 
a charge of false and villainous effrontery to a Magistrate of Hell, who gave him the 
alternative of the tender or of military servitude. ... I am sick of this city, and long to 
be with you and peace.' At last he gave up, sent forward a box filled with his books, 
which was inspected by the government and reported as seditious, and on April 4 left 
Ireland. He settled ten days later at Nantgwilt, near Cwm Elan, the seat of his cousins, 
the Groves, and there remained until June. In this period he appears to have met Pea- 
cock, through whom he was probably introduced to his London publisher, Hookham. In 
June he again migrated to Lynmouth in Devon. Here he wrote his * Letter to Lord 
Ellenborough,' defending Eaton, who had been sentenced for publishing Paine's * Age of 
Reason ' in a periodical. He amused himself by putting copies of the ' Declaration of 
Rights ' and a new satirical poem, ' The Devil's Walk,' in bottles and fire balloons, and 
setting them adrift by sea and air; but a more mundane attempt to circulate the 'De- 
claration of Rights ' resulted unfortunately for his servant, Dan Healy, who had become 
attached to him and followed him from Ireland, and was punished in a fine of £200 or 
eight months' imprisonment for posting it on the walls of Barnstable. Shelley could not 
pay the fine, but he provided fifteen shillings a week to make the prisoner's confinement 
more comfortable. The government now put Shelley under surveillance, and he was 
watched by Leeson, a spy. At Lynmouth * Queen Mab ' is first heard of. In September 
be removed to Tanyrallt, near Treraadoc, in Wales, where he became deeply interested 
in a scheme of Mr. Maddock's for reclaiming some waste land by an embankment. It 
was a large, practical enterprise, which engaged both Shelley's imagination and his spirit 
of philanthropy. He subscribed £100, and on October 4, went to London, seeking to 
interest others in this undertaking. Here he first met Godwin, through whom he became 
acquainted with the Newtons, of vegetarian fame, but before this, while in Dublin, he 
had himself adopted that way of life. It is uncertain whether at this time he saw God- 
win's daughter Mary. He renewed his acquaintance with Hogg, in whose narrative 
scenes of Shelley's life at this period, presented with the same vigor and vivacity as in 



xxviii PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

the Oxford time, occur. None of them are more humorous than such as describe the ap« 
pearance of Miss Kitchener, who, yielding to Shelley's long expressed wish, had joined 
the family before they left Wales and was now an inmate of the household. Shelley had 
idealized her at a distance, but her near neighborhood was disenchantment. Hogg's de- 
scription of his walk with the ' Brown Demon,' as he called her, on one arm, and the 
* Black Diamond,' as he nicknamed Eliza, on the other, has given her an unenviable 
figure. She was finally got rid of, and a stipend paid her to make good the loss she had 
suffered by giving up her school-teaching; but in her after-life she was much respected 
by those with whom she lived; and she appears to have remained very loyal to the 
poet, whose correspondence for nearly two years was so large a part of her life. 

Shelley returned to Wales on November 13, going to Tanyrallt. There he worked 
very constantly at his essays, an unpublished collection of ' Biblical Extracts ' for popular 
distribution, and * Queen Mab.' There also occurred the second assault upon him, which 
has been received with more distrust than any other event in his life. On February 26, 
between ten and eleven o'clock, Shelley, after retiring, was alarmed by a noise in the 
parlor below. He went down with two loaded pistols to the billiard room, and followed 
the sound of retreating footsteps into a small office, where he saw a man passing, through 
a glass window. The man fired, and Shelley's pistol flashed, on which the man knocked 
Shelley down, and, while they struggled, Shelley fired his second pistol, which he thought 
took effect. The man arose with a cry and said, ' By God, I will be revenged ! I will 
murder your wife ! I will ravish your sister ! By God, I will be revenged ! ' He then 
fled. The servants were still up, and the whole family assembled in the parlor and 
remained for two hours. Shelley and his servant, Dan, who had that day returned from 
prison, sat up. At four o'clock, Harriet heard a pistol shot, and on going down, found 
that Shelley's clothes and the window curtain had been shot through. Dan had left the 
room to see what time it was, when Shelley heard a noise at the window; as he approached 
it, a man thrust his arm through the glass and fired. Shelley's pistol again missed fire, 
and he struck at the man with an old sword ; while they were still struggling, Dan came 
back, and the man escaped. Peacock was there the next summer, and heard that persons, 
who examined the premises in the morning, found the grass trampled and rolled on, but 
there were no footprints except toward the house, and the impression of the ball on the 
wainscot showed that the pistol had been fired toward the window and not from it. 
There are other accounts of what Shelley said. In after years he ascribed the spasms of 
pain, from which he suffered, to the pressure of the man's knee on his body. It is not 
unlikely, as Dowden remarks, that Dan Healy had been followed by a spy, and it is 
known that Shelley was dogged by Leeson, whom he feared long afterwards. If the 
affair is regarded as an illusion of the sort to which Shelley was said to be subject, the 
material circumstances show that the event was one of intense reality to Shelley, and it 
is not strange that he immediately left the neighborhood, finding life there insupportable. 
He made a short journey to Ireland, where he arrived March 9, visited the Lakes of 
Killarney, and returned to Dublin, March 21. Early in April he was back in London. 

On returning to London, Shelley entered again into negotiations with his father for a 
further settlement. He would soon be of age, and it was necessary to make some terms 
to prevent the loss the estate would suffer by raising money on post-obit bonds. He was 
much harassed by his creditors, and his father is said privately to have taken measures 
to relieve him from their persecutions without his knowledge. It is uncertain whether 
he lived in a hotel or in lodgings. His first child, lanthe Eliza, was born in June. At 
the end of July he was settled at Bracknell, near the Boinvilles, who were connected 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxlx 



with the Newtons. Here Peacock visited him, and from this time became intimate. 
Peacock's cold judgment, notwithstanding his frequent skepticism and imperfect know- 
ledge of Shelley's affairs, makes his impressions valuable. To him, more than to any 
other external influence, is to be attributed the devotion of Shelley, which now began, to 
Greek studies. In the first week of October Peacock joined the family in a journey to 
Edinburgh, taken in a private carriage which Shelley had bought for Harriet. Nothing 
noteworthy occurred except that Shelley made a new convert, Baptista, a young Brazilian, 
who corresponded with him and partly translated ' Queen Mab,' which had been printed 
in the late spring, into Portuguese ; but he died while young. Shelley returned to London 
in December. 

Two years and a half had now passed since Shelley's marriage, and the union, in which 
love upon his part had not originally been an element, had become one of warm affection. 
Through all the vicissitudes of his wandering life it was a main source of Shelley's happi- 
ness. Time now began to disclose those limitations of character and temperament which 
were to be anticipated. The last pleasant scene in this early married life is Peacock's 
description of Shelley's pleasure in his child : — 

' He was extremely fond of it, and would walk up and down the room with it in his 
arms for a long time together, singing to it a monotonous melody of his own making, 
which ran on the repetition of a word of his own making. His song was, " Y^hmani, 
Yahmani, Yahmani, Yahmani." It did not please me; but, what was more important, it 
pleased the child, and lulled it when it was fretful. Shelley was extremely fond of his 
children. He was preeminently an affectionate father. But to the firstborn there were 
accompaniments which did not please him. The child had a wet nurse, whom he did not 
like, and was much looked after by his wife's sister, whom he intensely disliked. I have 
often thought that if Harriet had nursed her own child, and if this sister had not lived 
with them, the link of their married love would not have been so readily broken,' 

In the autumn of 1813, on coming to London, Harriet began to vary from that de- 
scription of her which Shelley had written to Fanny Godwin in December, 1812: — 

* How is Harriet a fine lady ? You indirectly accuse her of this offence, — to me the 
most unpardonable of all. The ease and simplicity of her habits, the unassuming plain- 
ness of her address, the uncalculated connection of her thought and speech, have ever 
formed in my eyes her greatest charm ; and none of these are compatible with fashionable 
-ire, or the attempted assumption of its vulgar and noisy eclat.'' 

It was to please her that he then bought a carriage and a quantity of plate, and she 
disolavec'. a taste for expensive things. On the birth of the child her intellectual sym- 
patuy with him seems to have ended. Afterwards she neither read nor studied. She 
was disenchanted of his views, which, Peacock mentions, she joined with him in not tak- 
ing seriously; she was disenchanted, too, of the wandering life and recurring poverty to 
which they led. 

Her sister's presence in the household became a cause of difference between her and 
her husband. The first expressed sign of domestic unhappiness occurs in Shelley's 
melancholy letter to Hogg, March 22, 1814. He had then been staying for a month 
with Mrs. Boinville, and looked forward with regret to ending his visit. He thus refers 
to Eliza: — 

* Eliza is still with us, not here, but will be with me when the infinite malice of destiny 
forces me to depart. I am now but little inclined to contest this point. I certainly hate 
her with all my heart and soul. It is a sight which awakens an inexpressible sensation 
of disgust and horror to see her caress my poor little lanthe, in whom I may hereafter 



XXX PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

find the consolation of sympathy. I sometimes feel faint with the fatigue of checking 
the overflowing of my unbounded abhorrence for this miserable wretch. But she is no 
more than a blind and loathsome worm that cannot see to sting.' 

Shelley felt keenly the contrast of the peaceful home in which he was staying with his 
own. Some years afterwards, in 1819, he wrote to Peacock: — 

* I could not help considering Mrs. B. when I knew her as the most admirable specimen 
of a human being I had ever seen. Nothing earthly ever appeared to me more perfect 
than her character and manners. It is improbtible that I shall ever meet again the per- 
son whom I so much esteem and still admire. I wish, however, that when you see her 
you would tell her that I have not forgotten her, nor any of the amiable circle once 
assembled around her; and that I desired such remembrances to her as an exile and a 
Pariah may be permitted to address to an acknowledged member of the community of 
mankind.' 

With Mrs. Boinville and her daughter, Mrs. Turner, he now made his first acquaint- 
ance with Italian. On March 26 he remarried Harriet, who had not been with him for 
the previous month, in St. George's Church, London, in order to place beyond doubt the 
validity of the Scotch marriage and the rights of his children. Shortly afterwards, in 
April, Harriet again left him, and to this month belongs the poem, ' Stanza, April, 1814,' 
the most melancholy verses he had yet written, in which he speaks of his ' sad and silent 
home,' and 'its desolated hearth.' During the next month Harriet was still away; and, 
at some time in it, he addressed to her the stanzas, ' To Harriet, May, 1814,' in which 
he appeals to her to return to him and restore his happiness, tells her that her feeling is 
' remorseless,' that it is ' malice,' ' revenge,' ' pride,' and begs her to ' pity if thou canst 
not love.' There is no evidence that Harriet rejoined Shelley, and, when her residence 
is next discovered, in July, she was living at Bath apparently with her sister. The story 
of Harriet's voluntarily leaving Shelley may have sprung from this protracted absence. 

Meanwhile Shelley had met Godwin's daughter, Mary, a girl of sixteen, who is de- 
scribed as golden-haired, with a pale, pure face, hazel eyes, a somewhat grave manner, 
and strength both of mind and will. Early in June he was feeling a strong attraction 
toward her. He confided in her, and out of their intimacy, through her sympathy, sprang 
that mutual love which soon became passion. The stanzas ' To Mary, June, 1814,' show 
deep feeling and a sense of doubtfulness in their position, but do not disclose any thought 
or suggestion of a relation other than friendship. But to Shelley, who was suffering 
deeply and was indeed wretched, it was not unnatural that he should reflect whether this 
was not one of those occasions justifying separation, which he had always held should 
be met by putting an end to a relation which had become false. This was his view of 
marriage, well known to Harriet at the time that he married her, when he had observed 
the ceremony for her sake, and openly repeated in his writings dedicated to her within a 
year. Shelley would not violate his principles by such an action; nor could it be pleaded 
that he had taken up with this view after obligations already incurred or subsequent to 
the incidents which made him desire a change. Harriet probably did not realize v/hat 
Shelley's convictions were, and may have been deceived by her experience of his disposi- 
tion. The natural inference from the state of the facts, which, at best, are imperfectly 
known, is that, as Shelley had now come of age and was in a position to make his rights 
of property felt, Harriet, under the guidance of her sister, who had been the intriguer 
from the start, desired such a settlement as would put her in possession of the social posi- 
tion and privileges which were at Shelley's command; that differences arose in the home, 
possibly on the comparatively slight question whether Eliza should continue to live with 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxl 

^ - 

them; and that Harriet, swayed by her sister, was endeavoring to subdue Shelley to her 
way by a certain hardness in her conduct, and by if not refusing to live with him, refrain- 
ing from doing so. But Shelley, on his part, in Harriet's absence, had come to lovo 
Mary, and to see in following that love the way of escape from his troubles. The time 
was one of intense mental excitement to him, especially when the crisis came early in 
July. He secured Mary's consent. She was the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft and of 
Godwin, and derived from both parents the same principles of marriage, both by practice 
and precept, that Shelley held. In their own eyes neither of them was committing a 
wrong. Shelley sent for Harriet. She came to London, and he told her his determina- 
tion. She was greatly shocked and made ill by the disclosure. Shelley acted with a 
certain deliberation as well as with openness. He directed settlements to be made for 
Harriet's maintenance, and saw that she was supplied with money for the present. At 
the same time his state of mind was one of conflict and distress. Peacock describes 
his appearance : — 

' Nothing that I ever read in tale or history could present a more striking image of a 
sudden, violent, irresistible, uncontrollable passion, than that under which I found him 
laboring, when, at his request, I went up from the country to call on him in London. 
Between his old feelings toward Harriet, from whom he was not then separated, and his 
new passion for Mary, he showed in his looks, in his gestures, in his speech, the state of 
a mind " suffering like a little kingdom the nature of an insurrection." His eyes were 
bloodshot, his hair and dress disordered. He caught up a bottle of laudanum and said, 
" I never part from this." He added, " I am always repeating to myself your lines from 
Sophocles : — 

' •' ' Man's happiest lot is not to be : 

And when we tread life's thorny steep 
Most blest are they who earliest free 
Descend to death's eternal sleep.' " ' 

Mary appears to have been determined at last by fears for Shelley's life, and on July 
28 she left England with him. 

It is unfortunately necessary to notice another element in the situation. It is the tes- 
timony of the common friends of Harriet and Shelley — Hogg, Peacock, and Hookham 
— that, up to the period of their parting, she was pure. It is said, indeed, on what must 
be regarded as the very doubtful authority of Miss Clairmont, that Shelley persuaded 
Mary to go by asserting Harriet's unfaithfulness. What is certain is that, after Harriet's 
death, he wrote to Mary, January 11, 1817, ' I learned just now from Godwin that he has 
evidence that Harriet was unfaithful to me four months before I left England with you.' 
That Godwin had such a story is known by his own evidence. The name of an obscure 
person, Ryan, who was acquainted with the family as early as the summer of 1813, was 
brought into connection with the affair. Shelley at one time doubted the paternity of 
his second child, Charles Bysshe, born in November, 1814, but he was afterwards 
satisfied that he was in error. I do not find any reliable evidence that Shelley ever 
maintained that he was convinced in July, 1814, of Harriet's infidelity. He afterwards 
believed that she had been in fault, as is shown by his letter to Southey in 1820, in which 
he maintains the rightfulness of his conduct : * I take God to witness, if such a being is 
now regarding both you and me ; and I pledge myself, if we meet, as perhaps you 
expect, before Him after death, to repeat the same in his presence — that you accuse me 
wrongfully. I am innocent of ill, either done or intended. The consequence you allude 
to flowed in no respect from me.' At the time of the event itself, it was not necessary 



xxxii PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

to Shelley's mind to have a justification which would appeal to all the world and ordinary 
ways of thinking ; but, when time disclosed such justification, he made use of it to 
strengthen his action in his own eyes and the eyes of Mary, and, though only by implica- 
tion, in Southey's judgment. He appears never to have mentioned the matter to others. 
Shelley's habitual reticence was far greater than he has ever received credit for. 

Shelley and Mary had for a companion on their voyage Miss Clairmont, a daughter of 
the second Mrs. Godwin by her first marriage. They visited Paris, crossed France, and 
stopped on the shores of Lake Lucerne, near Brunnen. There they remained but a short 
time, and, descending the Rhine to Cologne, journeyed by Rotterdam to England, where 
they arrived September 13. Peacock describes the following winter as the most solitary 
period of Shelley's life. He settled in London, and was greatly embarrassed with his 
affairs, endeavoring to raise money and to keep out of the way of creditors. He had 
written to Harriet during his journey, often saw her in London, and seems to have been 
upon pleasant terms with her. Godwin, who bad at first been very angry, renewed his 
relations under the stress of his own financial difficulties, and the money to be had from 
Shelley. In January, 1815, old Sir Bysshe's death greatly improved Shelley's position 
by making him the immediate heir. He went home, and was refused admittance by his 
father; but negotiations could not be long delayed. They lasted for eighteen months. He 
was given the choice of entailing the entire estate, £200,000, surrendering his claim to 
that part of the property, £80,000, which could not be taken from him, and accepting a 
life interest, on which condition he should receive the whole ; or, refusing this, he should 
be deprived of the £120,000, which would go to his younger brother, John. Shelley 
refused to execute the entail, which he thought wrong, and yielded the larger part of 
the property. To pay his immediate debts he sold his succession to the fee-simple of a 
portion of the estate, valued at £18,000,. to his father for £11,000, in June, 1815, and by 
the same agreement received a fixed annual allowance of £1,000, and also a considerable 
sum of money. He sent Harriet £200 for her debts, and directed his bankers to pay her 
£200 annually from his allowance. Mr. Westbrook also continued to his daughter his 
allowance of £200, so that she now had £400 a year. 

Early in this year Shelley was told that he was dying rapidly of consumption. His 
health was certainly broken before this time, but every symptom of pulmonary disease 
suddenly and completely passed away. In February Mary's first child was born, but 
died within a fortnight. In the spring he settled at Bishopgate and there wrote ' Alas- 
tor.' In 1816, Mary's second child, William, was born. In May, Shelley, with Mary 
and Miss Clairmont, left England for the Continent, and within two weeks arrived at 
Lake Geneva. There he became acquainted with Byron, and spent the summer boating 
with him. Unknown to Shelley or Mary, Miss Clairmont, before leaving London, had 
become Byron's mistress, and the intrigue went on at Geneva without their knowledge. 
There Shelley also met Monk Lewis. On returning to England, where he arrived Sep- 
tember 7, he settled at Bath for some months. The two incidents that saddened the 
year occurred in quick succession. On October 8, Mary's half-sister Fanny, daughter of 
Mary Wollstonecraft and Imlay, committed suicide by taking laudanum at an inn in 
Swansea. Shelley was much shocked by this event, but another blow was in store for 
him. He seems to have lost sight of Harriet during his residence abroad, and it is doubt- 
ful whether he saw her after reaching England. She had received her allowances reg- 
ularly. In Novem-ber Shelley sought for and could not find her. It is affirmed that she 
was living under the protection of her father until shortly before her death. She was in 
lodgings, however, in that month, and did not return to them after November 9. On 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxiii 

December 10 her body was found in the Serpentine River. Of the two suicides, he said 
that he felt that of Fanny most acutely; but it is plain that, while he said at a later time 
she had * a heart of stone,' the fate of Harriet brought a melancholy that was not to pass 
away, though he had ceased to love her. Unfortunately there is no doubt that she had 
erred in her life after leaving his protection, but the letters she wrote to an Irish friend 
excite pity and sympathy with her. 

Shelley was married to Mary December 30, in St. Mildred's Church. He immediately 
undertook to recover his children from the Westbrooks. These children had been placed, 
before Harriet's death, under the care of the Rev. John Kendall, at Budbrooke. The 
Westbrooks were determined to contest Shelley's possession of them. The affair was 
brought into the Chancery Court. It was set forth that Shelley was a man of atheistical 
and immoral principles, and ' Queen Mab,' which had been distributed only in a private 
way, was offered in proof. The case was heard early in 1817 before Lord Eldon. 
Shelley was represented by his lawyers. On March 27 Lord Eldon gave judgment 
against Shelley, basing it on his opinions as affecting his conduct. The children were 
not placed in the hands of the Westbrooks, but were made wards, and the persons 
nominated by Shelley, Dr. and Mrs. Hume, were appointed guardians. Shelley was to 
be allowed to visit them twelve times in the year, but only in the presence of their 
guardians, and the Westbrooks were given the same privilege without that restriction. 

Shelley settled at Marlow early in 1817, having with him Miss Clairmont and her new- 
born child Allegra, and his own two children, William and Clara. In the summer he 
wrote 'The Revolt of Islam,' besides prose pamphlets upon politics; but he had now 
really begun his serious life as a poet. The only cloud on his happiness was the separa- 
tion from his children, which his poems sufficiently illustrate. Hunt, with whom he was 
now intimate, says, that after the decision Shelley ' never dared to trust himself with 
mentioning their names in my hearing, though I had stood at his side throughout the 
business.' He was in fear lest his other children should be taken from him; and he 
finally determined to leave England and settle in Italy, being partly led thereto by the 
state of his health, for which he was advised to try a warm climate. 

The private and intimate view of Shelley, from the time of his union with Mary in the 
summer of 1814 to that of his final departure from England in the spring of 1818, is 
given by Peacock and Hunt. Peacock had become his familiar friend, though Shelley 
was less confidential with him than Peacock supposed. In the solitary winter of 1814-15, 
which was spent drearily in London, Peacock saw him often; and in the next summer, 
during his residence at Bishopgate, the pleasant voyage up the Thames to Lechlade was 
taken. It was on this excursion that Peacock's favorite prescription for Shelley's ills — 
•three mutton chops well peppered' — effected so sudden a cure. Peacock attributes 
much of Shelley's physical ills to his vegetarian diet. He observes that whenever Shelley 
took a journey and was obliged to live ' on what he could get,' as Shelley said, he became 
better in health, so that his frequent wanderings were beneficial to him. On these jour- 
neys, he notes, too, Shelley always took with him pistols for self-defence, and laudanum 
as a resource from the extreme fits of pain to which he was subject. Shelley was appre- 
hensive of personal danger, and he had a vague fear, till he left England, that his father 
would attempt to restrain his liberty on a charge of madness. He also had at one time 
the suspicion that he was afflicted with elephantiasis. Peacock took these incidents more 
seriously than is at all warranted. Shelley's mind was, in general, strong, active and 
sound; his industry, both in acquisition and creation, was remarkable ; and the theory that 
be was really unbalanced in any material degree is not in harmony with his constant 



xxxiv PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

intellectual power, his very noticeable practical sense and carefulness in such business as 
be bad to execute, and his adherence to fact in those cases where bis account can be 
tested by another's. He had visions, both waking and sleeping; he had wandering fears 
that became ideas temporarily, perhaps approaching the point of hallucination; but to give 
such incidents, which are not extraordinary, undue weight is to disturb a just impression 
of Shelley's mind and life, as a whole, which were singularly distinguished by continual 
intellectual force, tenacity and consistency of principle, and studies and moral aims main- 
tained in the midst of confusing and annoying affairs, perpetual discouragement, and 
bodily weariness and pain. The excess of ideality in him disturbed his judgment of wo- 
men, but in other relations of life, except at times of illness, he did not vary from the 
normal more than is the lot of genius. 

Peacock brings out, more than other friends, the manner of Shelley, his temperance in 
discussion, especially when his own affairs were concerned, and his serene demeanor. 
One anecdote is illustrative of this courtesy, and at the same time indicates that limitation 
under which his friendship with Peacock went on: — 

' I was walking with him in Bisham Wood, and we had been talking in the usual way 
of our ordinary subjects, when he suddenly fell into a gloomy reverie. I tried to rouse 
him out of it, and made some remarks which I thought might make him laugh at his own 
abstraction. Suddenly he said to me, still with the same gloomy expression: *' There is 
one thing to which I have decidedly made up my mind. I will take a great glass of ale 
every night." I said, laughingly, " A very good resolution, as the result of a melancholy 
musing." " Yes," he said, " but you do not know why I take it. I shall do it to deaden 
my feelings; for I see that those who drink ale have none." The next day he said to 
me, " You must have thought me very unreasonable yesterday evening ? " I said, " I did, 
certainly." " Then," he said, " I will tell you what I would not tell any one else. I was 
thinking of Harriet." I told him I had no idea of such a thing; it was so long since he 
had named her.' 

This is the single instance of expression of the remorse which Shelley felt for Harriet's 
fate. 

Peacock mentions the heartiness of Shelley's laughter, in connection with his failure 
to cultivate a taste for comedy in him, for Shelley felt the pain of comedy and its neces- 
sary insensibility to finer humane feeling; but this did not make him enjoy less his famil- 
iar, harmless humor, in which there was a dash of his early wild spirits. He was always 
fond of amusements of a childlike sort. Peacock thought that it was from him Shelley 
learned the sport of sailing paper-boats, happy if he could load them with pennies for the 
boys on the other side of stream or pond. At Marlow he used to play with a little girl 
who had attracted him, pushing a table across the floor to her, and when he went away 
he gave her nuts and raisins heaped on a plate,- which she kept through life in memory 
of him, and on her death willed it, so that it is now among the few personal relics of the 
poet. At Marlow, too, he visited the poor in their homes, as his custom was, helping 
and advising. His house there was a large one with many rooms, and handsomely fur- 
nished, the library being large enough for a ball-room, and the garden pleasant. Pea- 
cock's last service was to introduce him to the Italian opera, cf which he became fond, 
just before leaving England. 

Hunt had once seen Shelley in earlier years, and in prison had received letters of ad- 
miration and encouragement from him ; but he did not really know him until the end of 
1816, just at the time of Harriet's death. He is more evenly appreciative, and no such 
allowances as are made for Hogg and Peacock have to be observed in his case, Shelley 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxv 

was especially fond of Hunt's children, and would play with them to their great delight. 
The anecdote of their begging him ' not to do the horn ' (meaning that he should not 
twist his hair on his forehead in acting the monster) is well known. It had been the 
temptation of setting off fireworks with the Newton children that took Shelley away from 
Godwin on his first night with the philosopher and introduced him to the vegetarian 
circle. Hunt was in many ways more fitted by nature to enter into sympathy with Shel- 
ley than any one he had known; the friendship they formed was delightful to both, and 
Shelley's part in it caused him to show some of his finest qualities of tact, toleration and 
service, that asked no thanks and knew no bounds. On the other hand. Hunt several 
times defended Shelley's good name under virulent and slanderous attacks, and after his 
death was one of those who repeatedly spoke out for him. Hunt ascribes Shelley's dis- 
repute in England in considerable measure to the effect of the Lord Chancellor's decree 
depriving him of his children. He says: — 

* He was said to be keeping a seraglio at Marlow, and his friends partook of the scan- 
dal. This keeper of a seraglio, who, in fact, was extremely difficult to please in such 
matters, and who had no idea of love unconnected with sentiment, passed his days like a 
hermit. He rose early in the morning, walked and read before breakfast, took that meal 
sparingly, wrote and studied the greater part of the morning, walked and read again, 
dined on vegetables (for he took neither meat nor wine) conversed with nis friends (to 
whom his house was ever open), again walked out, and usually finished with reading to 
his wife till ten o'clock, when he went to bed. This was his daily existence. His book 
was generally Plato, or Homer, or one of the Greek tragedies, or the Bible, in which last 
he took a great, though peculiar, and often admiring interest.' 

Hunt notices, as others have done, the great variability of Shelley's expression, due io 
his responsiveness to the scenes about him or his own memories, and in particular the 
suddenness with which he would droop into an aspect of dejection. He admired his char- 
acter, and did not distrust his temperament because some of his moods might seem at the 
time inexplicable. He especially praises his generosity, and the noble way of it, as he 
had reason to do, having at one time received £1,400 from him, besides the loans (which 
were the same as gifts) in the ordinary course of affairs; and, indeed, nothing but its 
emptiness ever closed Shelley's purse to any of his friends, who, it must be said, availed 
themselves somewhat freely of his liberal nature. One anecdote told by Hunt brings 
Shelley before the eye better than pages of description, and with it he closes his reminis- 
cences of the Marlow period: — 

' Shelley, in coming to our house that night, had found a woman lying near the top of 
the hill in fits. It was a fierce winter night, with snow upon the ground; and winter 
loses nothing of its fierceness at Hampstead. My friend, always the promptest as well 
as most pitying on these occasions, knocked at the first houses he could reach, in order to 
have the woman taken in. The invariable answer was that they could not do it. He 
asked for an outhouse to put her in, while he went for a doctor. Impossible. In vain 
he assured them that she was no impostor. They would not dispute the point with him; 
but doors were closed, and windows shut down. . . . Time flies. The poor woman is in 
convulsions; her son, a young man, lamenting over her. At last my friend sees a car- 
riage driving up to a house at a little distance. The knock is given; the warm door 
opens; servants and lights pour forth. Now, thought he, is the time. He puts on his 
best address. . . . He tells his story. They only press on the faster. " Will you go and 
see her?" "No, sir; there's no necessity for that sort of thing, depend on it. Im- 
postors swarm everywhere. The thing cannot be done. Sir, your conduct is extraordi* 



xxxvi PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

. ' '' ■ ■■■. — — — - — ■ ' - — - . ■ - ■ ' ■^-^.—^^i^^^^^ 

nary." " Sir," cried Shelley, assuming a very different manner and forcing the flourishing 
householder to stop out of astonishment, '* I am sorry to say that your conduct is not ex- 
traordinary, and if my own seems to amaze you, I will tell you something which will 
amaze you more, and I hope will frighten you. It is such men as you who madden the 
spirits and the patience of the poor and wretched; and if ever a convulsion comes in this 
country (as is very probable) recollect what I tell you: you will have your house, that 
you refuse to put the miserable woman into, burnt over your head." " God bless me, 
sir ! Dear me, sir ! " exclaimed the poor, frightened man, and fluttered into his man- 
sion. The woman was then brought to our house, which was at some distance and down 
a bleak path; and Shelley and her son were obliged to hold her till the doctor could 
arrive. It appeared that she had been attending this son in London, on a criminal charge 
made against him, the agitation of which had thrown her into fits on her return. The 
doctor said that she would have perished, had she remained there a short time longer. 
The next day my friend sent mother and son comfortably home to Hendon, where they 
were known, and whence they returned him thanks full of gratitude.' 

Shelley left England for the last time on March 12, 1818, and travelled by the way of 
Paris and Mont Cenis to Milan. Thenceforth he resided in Italy, with frequent changes 
of abode at first, but finally at Pisa and its neighborhood. He had now matured, and his 
intimate life, his nature, and his character, are disclosed by himself in the rapidly pro- 
duced works on which his fame rests. From this time it is not necessary to seek in others' 
impressions that knowledge of himself which is the end of biography ; and the singular 
consistency and self-possession of his character and career, as shown in his poetry and 
prose, and in his familiar letters, bearing out as they do the permanent traits of his dis- 
position already known, and correcting or shedding light upon what was extraordinary in 
his personality, give the best reason for belief that much in Shelley's earlier career which 
seems abnormal is due to the misapprehension and the misinterpretation of him by his 
friends. It was the life of a youth, impulsive and self-confident, and, moreover, it is the 
only full narrative of youth which our literature affords. If the thoughts and actions 
of first years were more commonly and minutely detailed, there might be less wonder, 
less distrust, less harsh judgment upon what seems erratic and foolish in Shelley's early 
days. His misfortune was that immaturity of mind and judgment became fixed in im- 
prudent acts; his practical responsibility foreran its due time. Yet the story, as it stands, 
demonstrates generous aims, a sense of human duty, an interest in man's welfare, and a 
resolution to serve it, as exceptional as Shelley's poetic genius, intimate as the tie was 
between the two; for he was right in characterizing his poetic genius as in the main a 
moral one. The latter years, during which his life is contained and expressed in his 
works, require less attention to such details as have been followed thus far; his life in 
manhood must be read in his poetry and prose, and especially in his letters, but some 
account of external affairs is still necessary. 

He had taken Miss Clairmont and her child with him, but at Milan the baby, Allegra, 
was sent to Byron, who undertook her bringing up and education. He enjoyed the opera 
at Milan, and made an excursion to Como in search of a house, but finally decided to go 
further south, and departed, on May 1, for Leghorn, where the party arrived within ten 
days. The presence there of the Gisbornes, old friends of Godwin, drew him to that city, 
which became, with Pisa, his principal place of residence. Mrs. Gisborne was a middle- 
aged woman of sense and experience, and possessed of much literary cultivation. She 
had been brought up as a girl, in the East, and had married Reveley, the student of 
Athepian antiquities, in Rome. He was a Radical; and on returning to England became 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxvii 



associated with Godwin, Holcroft, and others of the group of reformers; and in this way 
it happened that when Mary's mother died at her child's birth, Mrs. Reveley took the 
babe home and cared for it. Two years later, when Reveley died, Godwin proposed 
marriage to her, but was refused; and afterwards she married Mr. Gisborne, with whom 
she had lived in Italj'^ for some years. She welcomed Mary with great cordiality, and 
the pleasantest relations, which were only once broken, sprang up between the families. 
She introduced Shelley to Calderon, and read Spanish with him, as time went on, greatly 
to his pleasure; and, on his side, he became attached to her son, Henry Reveley, a young 
engineer, and especially assisted him in the scheme of putting a steamboat on the Medi- 
terranean ; but the plan, in which Shelley had embarked capital, failed. It was in the 
financial complications springing out of this affair that opportunity was given for the 
breach of confidence which then occurred, as Shelley thought he was to be defrauded; 
but the trouble between them was amicably settled. These events took place at a later 
time. 

Shelley did not at once settle in Leghorn, but took a house at the Baths of Lucca, 
where he spent a quiet period, pleased with the scene, his walks and rides, the bath 
under the woodland waterfall, and all the first delights of Italy, while he was not blind 
to its miseries. He finished ' Rosalind and Helen,' which he had begun at Marlow, and 
translated Plato's * Symposium.' Miss Clairmont had already begun to be discontented 
at the separation from Allegra, and was far from comforted by what news reached her 
of Byron's life at Venice. Shelley yielded to her anxiety and, on August 19, accompa- 
nied her by Florence to Venice, where Byron received him cordially, and offered him his 
villa at Este, where her mother, whose presence in Venice was concealed, would be per- 
mitted to see Allegra. Shelley wrote to Mary, who left Lucca August 30, and the family 
was soon settled at Este. Here their youngest child, Clara, sickened, and, on their tak- 
ing her at once to Venice for advice, she died in that city, September 24. The loss made 
the autumn lonely at Este, but there, except for brief visits to Byron, Shelley remained, 
writing the ' Lines on the Euganean Hills,' ' Julian and Maddalo,' and the first act of 
* Prometheus Unbound.' His poetic genius had come somewhat suddenly to its mastery, 
and his mind was full of great plans, keeping it restless and absorbed, while his melauv 
choly seemed to deepen. On November 5 they departed for the south. Miss Clairmont 
still accompanying them, and she continued to live with them. They arrived at Rome 
November 20, and, remaining only a week, were settled at Naples December 1. Here 
Shelley was intoxicated with the beauty of Italy; he visited Pompeii, ascended Vesuvius, 
and went south as far as Paestum,and in his letters gives marvellously beautiful descriptions 
of these scenes; but he was, for causes which remain obscure, deeply dejected and unhappy 
to such a degree that he hid his verses from Mary and disclosed no more of his grief than 
he could help. She ascribed his melancholy to physical depression, but there were other 
reasons, never satisfactorily made out. He worked but little, only at finishing and 
remodelling old poems, except that he wrote the well-known personal poems of that 
winter. 

On March 5 they returned to Rome, and there he plucked up courage again, and fin- 
ished three acts of ' Prometheus Unbound,' writing in that wilderness of beauty and ruin 
which he describes with a sad eloquence. Here the most severe domestic sorrow they 
were to undergo came upon them in the death of their boy, William, on June 7. Shelley 
watched by him for sixty hours uninterruptedly, and immediately was called on to forget his 
grief and sustain Mary, who sank under this last blow. * Yesterday,' he wrote to Peacock, 
•after sxi illness of only a few days, mv little WiUiam died. There was no hope from 



Kxxviii PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

the moment of the attack. You will be kind enough to tell all my friends, so that I need 
not write to them. It is a great exertion to me to write even this, and it seems to me as 
if, hunted by calamity as I have been, that I should never recover any cheerfulness again.' 
He removed with Mary at once to Leghorn, that she might have Mrs. Gisborne's com- 
pany, and there spent the summer. ' The Cenci ' was the work of these months, written 
in a tower on the top of his house overlooking the country. On October 2 they went to 
Florence, where his last child, Percy, was born November 12. The galleries were a per- 
petual delight to him, and especially the sculptures, on which he made notes and from 
which he derived poetic stimulus. Here he wrote the fourth act of * Prometheus Un- 
bound,' finishing that poem. 

On January 27 they removed to Pisa, where they found a friend in Mrs. Mason, one 
of the Earl of Kingston's daughters whom Mary Wollstonecraft had once in charge. 
She was one of their set of acquaintances from this time. Shelley was much troubled in 
the opening months of this year, 1820, by Godwin's complaints and embarrassments, but 
as he had already given Godwin £4,000 or £5,000, and in order to do it had divested 
himself, as he reminded Godwin, of four or five times this amount, which he had raised 
from money-lenders, and as he was really unable to accomplish anything by such sacri- 
fices, he receded from the impossible task of extricating him from debt. Miss Clairmont, 
too, toward whom Shelley's conduct is tenderly considerate and manly, caused him 
trouble by her anxiety about Allegra, and her inability to keep on good terms with Mary, 
who was now unwilling that she should continue with them. His discharged servant, 
Paolo, also was a source of uneasiness and exasperation, as he first attempted to black- 
mail Shelley and then spread scandals about his private life, which were taken up in 
Italy and echoed in England. On June 15 they again removed to Leghorn, taking the 
house of the Gisbornes, and on August 5 went for the summer to the Baths of San Giuli- 
ano near Pisa. To these months belong ' The Witch of Atlas,' and ' (Edipus Tyrannus;' 
but Shelley's principal works were the occasional pieces. He had become greatly dis- 
couraged by the continued neglect of the public, and by the personal attacks to which 
his character was subjected in England. He certainly felt keenly his position as an out- 
cast, and though his enthusiasm for political causes was undiminished and flamed up in 
*The Mask of Anarchy,' and the 'Odes,' his spirit was depressed and hopeless. Miss 
Clairmont left them at the end of the summer, and became a private governess in Flor- 
ence, though from time to time she visited them. On October 22 Medwin joined them 
for some months, and directly after, on October 29, they returned from the Baths to Pisa 
for the winter. Here their circle of acquaintance was now large, and included Professor 
Pacchiani, Emilia Viviani, Prince Mavrocordato, the Princess Argiropoli, Sgricci, Taaffe, 
— new names, but, excepting two, of minor importance. Emilia Viviani was a young lady 
who interested Mary and Miss Clairmont as well as Shelley in her misfortunes. She was 
the occasion of * Epipsychidion,' in writing which Shelley expressed his full idealization of 
woman as the object of love and in so doing broke the charm of this last object of his 
idolatry. The event ended in exciting a certain jealousy in Mary, who was soon disen-« 
chanted of the distressed maiden; but she continued to be treated by all with the great- 
est kindness. Mavrocordato was the occasion of Shelley's keener interest in the Greek 
revolt, which was expressed in * Hellas,' an improvisation of 1821, and he was welcome 
also to Mary, who read Greek with him. The most important addition to the circle was 
Edward Williams and his wife, Jane, who came on January 13, 1821, and were Shelley's 
constant and most prized companions, from this time to the end. The summer was spent 
6t the Baths of Giuliano, where * Adonais * was composed, except that Shelley went to 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxix 



Ravenna to see Byron in August; and the winter was passed at Pisa, where Byron settled 
in November with the Countess Guiccioli. Med win also returned and joined the circle. 
It was proposed, too, to invite Hunt, who was in straits, to Italy, and a plan was made 
for him to join with Byron in issuing ' The Liberal ' there, and in consequence of this 
arrangement, and by Shelley's free but self-denying material aid, he was enabled to 
come, but did not arrive so soon as was hoped. 

Such, in rapid outline, was the external course of Shelley's life in these four Italian 
years up to the spring of 1822. He had accomplished his poetic work, though it remained 
in large part unpublished, and he looked upon himself as having failed, — not that he did 
not know that his work was good, but that it had received no recognition. In private 
life he had continued to meet with grave misfortune, and his character still stood black- 
ened and traduced in the eyes of the world. His life with Mary had been a happy one, 
but he had early learned that it was his part to deny himself and contain his own moods 
and sorrows. It is plain that he felt a lack of perfect sympathy between them, a certain 
coldness, and something like fault-finding with him because of his persistent difference 
from the world and its ways. He was pained by this, and made solitary, and Mary 
afterwards was aware of it, as her self-reproaches show; but the union, notwithstanding, 
was one of tender affection in the midst of many circumstances that might have disturbed 
it. To Shelley's continued loneliness must be ascribed the deep melancholy of his verses 
to Mrs. Williams, the sheaf of poems that was the last of all. Edward Williams, who 
had been at Eton in Shelley's time, may have had some knowledge of him, but he was 
practically a new acquaintance. He was manly and generous by nature, and had a taste 
for literature, though his previous life had been an active one. Shelley became much 
attached to him, and found in his company, as they boated on the Serchio together, great 
enjoyment. Both he and Mary express warm admiration for their friend. Mrs. Wil- 
liams suffered the same idealization that Shelley had wrought about every woman who 
attracted him at all; and the peace and happiness of her life with her husband especially 
won upon him. The verses he wrote her were kept secret from Mary, and have the 
personal and intimate quality of poems meant for one alone to read. This friendship 
was the last pleasure that Shelley was to know, and Williams was to be his companior 
in death. 

Trelawny, from whom the true description of Shelley at the end of life comes, joined 
the circle January 14, 1822. He had led a romantic life as a sailor, and was now twenty- 
eight years old when he sought out Shelley, and made friends with Byron, and through 
these friendships became an interesting character to the world. The scene of his intro- 
duction to Shelley has been often quoted: — 

* The Williamses received me in their earnest, cordial manner. We had a great deal 
to communicate to each other, and were in loud and animated conversation, when I was 
rather put out by observing in the passage near the open door opposite to where I sat a 
pair of glittering eyes steadily fixed on mine. It was too dark to make out whom they 
belonged to. With the acuteness of a woman, Mrs. Williams's eyes followed the direc- 
tion of mine, and going to the doorway she laughingly said, "Come in, Shelley; it's only 
our friend Tre, just arrived." Swiftly gliding in, blushing like a girl, a tall, slim strip- 
ling held out both his hands; and, although I could hardly believe, as I looked at his 
flushed, feminine and artless face, that it could be the poet, I returned his warm pressure. 
After the ordinary greetings and courtesies he sat down and listened. I was silent from 
astonishment. Was it possible this mild-looking, beardless boy could be the veritable 
monster at war with all the world ? — excommunicated by the Fathers of the Church, 



xl PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



deprived of his civil rights by the fiat of a grim Lord Chancellor, discarded by every 
member of his family, and denounced by the rival sages of our literature as the founder 
of a Satanic school ? I could not believe it; it must be a hoax. . . . He was habited 
like a boy in a black jacket and trousers, which he seemed to have outgrown, or his 
tailor, as is the custom, had most shamefully stinted him in his " sizings." Mrs. Williams 
saw my embarrassment and, to relieve me, asked Shelley what book he had in his hand. 
His face brightened, and he answered briskly, " Calderon's ' Magico Prodigioso.' I am 
translating some passages in it." " Oh, read it to us ! " Shoved off from the shore of 
commonplace incidents, that could not interest him, and fairly launched on a theme that 
did, he instantly became oblivious of everything but the book in his hand. The masterly 
manner in which he analyzed the genius of the author, his lucid interpretation of the 
story, and the ease with which he translated into our language the most subtle and imag- 
inative passages of the Spanish poet were marvellous, as was his command of the two 
languages. After this touch of his quality I no longer doubted his identity. A dead 
silence ensued. Looking up I asked, " Where is he ? " Mrs. Williams said, " Who ? 
Shelley ? Oh, he comes and goes like a spirit, no one knows when or where." Pre- 
sently he reappeared with Mrs. Shelley.' 

Trelawny's whole narrative is very vivid and clear, and, in particular, he renders the 
boyishness of Shelley better than Hogg or Peacock, who turned it to ridicule. He found 
in him the old qualities, however, and many of the old habits. He still read or wrote 
incessantly, and could close his senses to the world around, even at Byron's dinner- 
parties, and withdraw to his own thoughts. He had no regular habits of eating, and 
lived on water and bread, — ' bread literally his staff of life.' He could jump into the 
water, on being told to swim, and lie quiet on the bottom till 'fished out,' — an incident 
that would have read very differently in Hogg or Peacock, but is here told with perfect 
nature. He was self-willed. ' I always go on till I am stopped, and I never am stopped,' 
he said. He had filled Williams with enthusiasm for self-improvement, and won him 
over wholly to books and thought and poetizing, just as he always sought to do with his 
friends, men or women. He was as passionately fond of boating as ever and eager for 
the craft he had ordered for the summer, which they were to spend in the Gulf of Spezia, 
as had been decided; and he wandered out alone into the Pine Forest to write, as when 
he composed * Alastor.' The same features, the same traits, are here as of old, — with 
the difference that they are told naturally without the suggestion of grotesqueness on 
one side or of incipient lunacy on the other. This sustains our belief in Shelley's always 
having been a natural being, subject to no more of eccentricity or disease than exists 
within the bounds of an ordinary healthy nature. ' He was like a healthy, well-condi- 
tioned boy,' says Trelawny. The gentle timidity is here, too, the half ludicrous fear of 
a * party ' with which Mary had * threatened ' him, and similar shynesses that existed in 
his temperament, with the openness that knew no wrong where no wrong was meant. 
His dislike of Byron, mixed with admiration of his genius and discouragement in its pre^ 
sence, is not concealed, and the vigor and brilliancy of his talk, its eloquent flow, together 
with his spells of sadness and the physical spasms that made him roll on the floor, but 
with self-command and words of unforgetting kindness for those about him who were 
obliged to look on, and also the constant discouragement of his spirits in respect to him- 
self and his life, — are all spread on these pages, which are biographically of the highest 
Value. It is fortunate that there is so faithful a witness of these last days ; but this 
memoir must draw to a close without lingering over the last portrait. 

The plan to pass the summer on the Gulf of Spezia was carried out. On May 1, after 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xli 

» _ : ^___ 

some difficulties in finding a place of abode, Shelley was settled in the Casa Magn'i, a 
lonely house on the edge of the sea, under steep and wooded slopes, beneath which rocky 
footpaths wound to Lerici on the south and to the near village of San Terenzo on the 
north. The Williamses were with him, and, temporarily. Miss Clairmont, to whom in 
the first days he there broke the news of the death of Allegra. The spot is one of inde- 
scribable beauty, with lovely views, both near and distant, wherever the eye wanders or 
rests ; but it had also an aspect of wildness and strangeness, which depressed Mary's 
spirits. ' The gales and squalls,' she says, ' that hailed our first arrival surrounded the 
bay with foam. The howling winds swept round our exposed house, and the sea roared 
unremittingly. . . . The natives were wilder than the place. Our near neighbors of 
San Terenzo were more like savages than any people I ever before lived among. Many 
a night they passed on the beach singing, or rather howling, the women dancing about 
among the waves that broke at their feet, the men leaning against the rocks and joining 
in their loud, wild chorus.' It was among these villagers that Shelley's last offices of 
charity were done, as he visited them in their houses, and helped the sick and the poor as 
he was able. On May 12 arrived the boat which Shelley christened the Ariel, — 'a per- 
fect plaything for the summer,' Williams said. They made also a shallop of canvas and 
reeds, and in one or the other of these crafts he incessantly boated. He wrote * The 
Triumph of Life,' going off by himself in his shallop in the moonlight. Mary thought it 
was the happiest period in his life. ' I still inhabit this divine bay,' he wrote, * reading 
Spanish dramas, and sailing and listening to the most enchanting music' Again he says^ 

* If the past and future could be obliterated, the present would content me so well that I 
could say with Faust to the passing moment, — " Remain thou, thou art so beautiful." ' 
Mary unfortunately was not so happy, and she says, took no pleasure excepting when 

* sailing, lying down with my head on his knee, I shut my eyes and felt the wind and our 
swift motion alone.' She was also at one time dangerously ill, and Shelley himself was 
far from well. The house was a place of visions. One night, when with Williams, he 
saw Allegra as a naked child rise from the waves, clapping her hands; again he saw the 
image of himself, who asked him, ' How long do you mean to be content ? ' And Mrs. 
Williams twice saw Shelley when he was not present. 

Two months passed by in this retreat, and it was now time for Leigh Hunt to arrive. 
Shelley set off to meet him at Leghorn, taking Williams and the sailor-boy, Charles 
Vivian, with him. Mary called Shelley back two or three times and told him that if he 
did not come soon she should go to Pisa, with their child Percy, and cried bitterly when 
he went away. The next day he arrived at Leghorn. Thornton Hunt always remem- 
bered the cry with which Shelley rushed into his father's arms, saying, ' I am inexpressi- 
bly delighted ! you cannot think how inexpressibly happy it makes me.' He saw the 
Hunts settled, and arranged affairs between Hunt and Byron ; but both he and W^illiams 
were anxious to return to their families in their lonely situation. On July 8 they set sail 
in the Ariel, not without warning of risk. The weather was threatening, and in a few 
moments they were lost in a sea-fog. Trelawny describes the scene : — 

* Although the sun was obscured by mists it was oppressively sultry. There was not a 
breath of air in the harbor. TLe heaviness of the atmosphere and an unwonted stillness 
benumbed my senses. I went down into the cabin and sank into a slumber. I was 
roused up by a noise overhead, and went on deck. The men were getting up a chain 
cable to let go another anchor. There was a general stir amongst the shipping; shifting 
berths, getting down yards and masts, veering out cables, hauling in of hawsers, letting 
go anchors, hailing from the ships and quays, boats sculling rapidly to and fro. It was 



xlii PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

almost dark, although only half past six. The sea was of the color and looked as solid 
and smooth as a sheet of lead, and covered with an oily scum ; gusts of wind swept over 
without ruffling it, and big drops of rain fell on its surface, rebounding, as if they could 
not penetrate it. There was a commotion in the air, made up of many threatening sounds, 
coming upon us from the sea. Fishing craft and coasting vessels under bare poles rushed 
by us in shoals, running foul of the ships in the harbor. As yet the din and hubbub was 
that made by men, but their shrill pipings were suddenly silenced by the crashing voice 
of a thunder squall that burst right over our heads. For some time no other sounds were 
to be heard than the thunder, wind and rain. When the fury of the storm, which did 
not last for more than twenty minutes, had abated, and the horizon was in some degree 
cleared, I looked to seaward anxiously, in the hope of descrying Shelley's boat amongst 
the many small crafts scattered about. I watched every speck that loomed on the hori- 
zon, thinking that they would have borne up on their return to the port, as all the other 
boats that had gone out in the same direction had done. I sent our Genoese mate on 
board some of the returning crafts to make inquiries, but they all professed not to have 
seen the English boat. . . . During the night it was gusty and showery, and the light- 
ning flashed along the coast; at daylight I returned on board and resumed my examina- 
tions of the crews of the various boats which had returned to the port during the night. 
They either knew nothing or would say nothing. My Genoese, with the quick eye of a 
sailor, pointed out on board a fishing-boat an English-made oar that he thought he had 
seen in Shelley's boat, but the entire crew swore by all the saints in the calendar that 
this was not so. Another day was passed in horrid suspense. On the morning of the 
third day I rode to Pisa. Byron had returned to the Lanfranchi Palace. I hoped to find 
a letter from the Villa Magni; there was none. I told my fears to Hunt, and then went 
upstairs to Byron. When I told him his lip quivered, and his voice faltered as he ques- 
tioned me.' 

Trelawny sent a courier to Leghorn and Byron ordered the Bolivar to cruise along the 
coast. He himself took his horse and rode. At Via Reggio he recognized a punt, a 
water keg, and some bottles that had been on Shelley's boat, and his fears became almost 
certainties. To quicken their watchfulness he promised rewards to the coast-guard 
patrol. On July 18 two bodies were found. ' The tall, slight figure, the jacket, the vol- 
ume of iEschylus in one pocket, and Keats's poems in the other, doubled back as if the 
reader in the act of reading had hastily thrust it away, were all too familiar to me to 
leave a doubt on my mind that this mutilated corpse was any other than Shelley's.' The 
second body was that of Williams. A few days later, the body of the sailor-boy, Charles 
Vivian, was also found. Trelawny went on to Lerici and broke the news to the two 
widows there, who, after suffering great suspense, and going to Pisa and returning, still 
hoped against hope through these days. 

There was nothing more to be done except that the last offices must be discharged. 
The bodies had been buried in the sand, but permission was obtained from the authorities 
to burn them. Trelawny took charge. He had a furnace made, and provided what else 
was necessary. On the first day Williams's body was burned, and on the second, August 
18, Shelley's. Three white wands had been stuck in the sand to mark the grave, but it 
was nearly an hour before his body was found. The preparations were then completed. 
Only Byron and Hunt besides Trelawny and some natives of the place were present. 
♦ The sea,' says Trelawny, ' with the islands of Gorgona, Capraja and Elba, was before 
us. Old battlemented watch towers stretched along the coast, backed by the marble- 
crested Apennines glistening in the sun, picturesque from their diversified outlines, and 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xliii 

not a human dwelling was in sight.' And Hunt takes up the description: * The beauty 
of the flame arising from the funeral pile was extraordinary. The weather was beauti- 
fully fine. The Mediterranean, now soft and lucid, kissed the shore as if to make peace 
with it. The yellow sand and blue sky were intensely contrasted with one another; 
marble mountains touched the air with coolness, and the flame of the fire bore away to- 
ward heaven in vigorous amplitude wavering and quivering with a brightness of incon- 
ceivable beauty.' Wine, oil and salt were thrown on the pile, and with them the volume 
of Keats, and all was slowly consumed. Trelawny snatched the heart from the flames. 
Hunt and Byron hardly maintained themselves, but at last all was over, and they rode 
away. The ashes were deposited in the English burying ground at Rome, in the no\9 
familiar spot where Trelawny placed a slab in the ground and inscribed its «= 

Percy Btsshe Shelley 

Cor Cordium 

Natus IV Aug. MDCCXCH 

Obiit VIII Jul. MDCCCXXII 

* Nothing of him that doth fade, 
But doth suffer a sea change 
into something rich and strange.' r 1? W 



QUEEN MAB 

A PHILOSOPHICAL POEM 

WITH NOTES 

ECRASEZ L'INFAME! 

Correspondatice de Voltairs^ 

Avia Pieridum peragro loca, nullius ante 
Trita solo, juvat integros accedere fonteis ; 
Atque haurire : juvatque novos decerpere flores. 

Unde prius nulli velarint tempora Musae. 
Primum quod magnis doceo de rebus ; et arctis 
Religionum animos nodis exsolvere pergo. 

Lucretius, lib. iv. 

Abj TTOu CTTO), KOI KoafJLOv Kivqaoi. 

Archimedes 



* During' my existence I have incessantly 
speculated, thought and read.' So Shelley 
wrote when he was yet not quite twenty years 
old ; and the statement fairly represents the 
history of his boyhood and youth. Queen Mab 
was composed in 1812-13, in its present form, 
and issued during the summer of the latter 
year, when Shelley was just twenty-one. It 
embodies substantially the contents of his mind 
at that period, especially those speculative, 
religious and philanthropic opinions to the ex- 
pression of which his ' passion for reforming 
the world ' was the incentive ; and, poetically, 
it is his first work of importance. Much of 
its subject-matter had been previously treated 
by him. The figure of Ahasuerus, which was 
a permanent imaginative motive for him, had 
been the centre of a juvenile poem, The Wan- 
dering Jew, in which Medwin claims to have 
collaborated with him, as early as 1809-10 ; 
and youthful verse written before 1812 is 
clearly incorporated in Queen Mab. It may 
fairly be regarded, poetically and intellectu- 
ally, as the result of the three preceding years, 
from the eighteenth to the twenty-first of the 
poet's life. 

The poem owes much to Shelley's studies in 
the Latin and French authors. The limitations 
of his poetical training and taste in English verse 
are justly stated by Mrs. Shelley, in her note : 

" Our earlier English poetry was almost un- 
known to him. The love and knowledge of 



nature developed by Wordsworth — the lofty 
melody and mysterious beauty of Coleridge's 
poetry — and the wild fantastic machinery and 
gorgeous scenery adopted by Southey, com- 
posed his favorite reading. The rhythm of 
Queen Mab was founded on that of Thalaba, 
and the first few lines bear a striking resem- 
blance in spirit, though not in idea, to the 
opening of that poem. His fertile imagina- 
tion, and ear tuned to the finest sense of har- 
mony, preserved him from imitation. Another 
of his favorite books was the poem of Gebir, 
by Walter Savage Landor.' 

Queen Mab is, in form, what would be ex- 
pected from such preferences. His own Notes 
indicate the prose sources of his thought. He 
dissented from all that was established in so- 
ciety, for the most part very radically, and was 
a believer in the perfectibility of man by moral 
means. Here, again, Mrs. Shelley's note is 
most just : 

' He was animated to greater zeal by com- 
passion for his fellow-creatures. His sym- 
pathy was excited by the misery with which 
the world is bursting. He witnessed the suf- 
ferings of the poor, and was aware of the evils 
of ignorance. He desired to induce every rich 
man to despoil himself of superfluity, and to 
create a brotherhood of property and service, 
and Avas ready to be the first to lay down the 
advantages of his birth. He was of too un-' 
compromising a disposition to Join a,nj party 



QUEEN MAB 



He did not in his youth look forward to grad- 
ual improvement : nay, in those days of intol 
erance, now almost forgotten, it seemed as easy 
to look forward to the sort of millennium of 
freedom and brotherhood, which he thought 
the proper state of mankind, as to the present 
reign of moderation and improvement. Ill 
health made him believe tliat his race would 
soon be run ; that a year or two was all he had 
of life. He desired that these years should be 
useful and illustrious. He saw, in a fervent 
call on his fellow-creatures to share alike the 
blessings of the creation, to love and serve 
each other, the noblest work that life and time 
permitted him. In this spirit he composed 
Queen Mob.'' 

Shelley's own opinion of the poem changed 
in later years. He always referred to it as 
written in his nineteenth year, when it was ap- 
parently begun, though its final form at any 
rate dates from the next year. In 18il7 he 
wrote of it as follows : 

. . . ' Full of those errors which belong to 
youth, as far as imagery and language and a 
connected plan is concerned. But it was a sin- 
cere overflowing of the heart and mind, and that 
at a period when they are most uncorrupted and 
pure. It is the author's boast, and it consti- 
tutes no small portion of his happiness, that, 
after six years [this period supports the date 
1811] of added experience and reflection, the 
doctrine of equality, and liberty, and disinter- 
estedness, and entire unbelief in religion of any 
sort, to which this poem is devoted, have 
gained rather than lost that beauty and that 
grandeur which first determined him to devote 
his life to the investigation and inculcation of 
them.' 

In 1821, when the poem was printed by W. 
Clark, Shelley, in a letter of protest to the edi- 
tor of the Exaviiner, describes it in a different 
strain : 

'A poem, entitled Queen Mab, was written 
by me, at the age of eighteen, I dare say in a 
sufficiently intemperate spirit — but even then 
was not intended for publication, and a few 



copies only were struck off, to be distributed 
among my personal friends. I have not seen 
this production for several years ; I doubt not 
but that it is perfectly worthless in point of 
literary composition ; and that in all that con- 
cerns moral and political speculation, as well 
as in the subtler discriminations of metaphysi- 
cal and religious doctrine, it is still more crude 
and immature. I am a devoted enemy to re- 
ligious, political, and domestic oppression ; and 
I regret this publication not so much from lit- 
erary vanity, as because I fear it is better fitted' 
to injure than to serve the sacred cause of 
freedom.' 

Queen Mob, as Shelley here states, was pri- 
vately issued. The name of the printer was 
cut out of nearly all copies, for fear of prose- 
cution. The edition was of two hundred and 
fifty copies, of which about seventy were put 
in circulation by gift. Many pirated editions 
were issvied after Shelley's death both in Eng- 
land and America, and the poem was especially 
popular with the Owenites. By it Shelley was 
long most widely known, and it remains one 
of the most striking of his works in popular 
apprehension. Though at last he abandoned 
it, because of its crudities, he had felt inter- 
est in it after its first issue and had partly 
recast it, and included a portion of this re- 
vision in his next volunie, Alastor, 1816, as the 
Daemon of the World. \ The radical character 
of Queen Mab, which was made a part of the 
evidence against his character, on the occasion 
of the trial which resulted in his being de- 
prived of the cvistody of his children by Lord 
Eldon, was a main element in the contempo- 
rary obloquy in which his name was involved in 
England, though very few persons could ever 
have read the poem then ; but it may be 
doubted whether in the end it did not help his 
fame by the fascination it exercises over a cer- 
tain class of minds in the first stages of social 
and intellectual revolt or angry unrest so wide- 
spread in this century. 

The dedication To Harriet ***** is to his 
first wife. 



TO HARRIET ***** 

Whose is the love that, gleaming through 
the world, 

Wards off the poisonous arrow of its scorn? 
Whose is the warm and partial praise. 
Virtue's most sweet reward ? 

Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul 
Riper in truth and virtuous daring grow ? 
Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on, 
And loved mankind the more ? 



Harriet ! on thine : — thou wert my purer 

mind ; 
Thou wert the inspiration of my song ; 

Thine are these early wilding flowers, 

Though garlanded by me. 

Then press into thy breast this pledge of 

love ; 
And know, though time may change and 
years may roll, 
Each floweret gathered in my heart 
It consecrates to thine. 



QUEEN MAB 



How wonderful is Death, 

Death, and his brother Sleep ! 
One pale as yonder waning moon 

With lips of lurid blue ; 

The other, rosy as the morn 
When throned on ocean's wave 

It blushes o'er the world ; 
Yet both so passing wonderful ! 

Hath then the gloomy Power 
Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres lo 
Seized on her sinless soul ? 
Must then that peerless form 
Which love and admiration cannot view 
Without a beating heart, those azure veins 
Which steal like streams along a field of 
snow. 
That lovely outline which is fair 
As breathing marble, perish ? 
Must putrefaction's breath 
Leave nothing of this heavenly sight 

But loathsomeness and ruin ? 20 

Spare nothing but a gloomy theme. 
On which the lightest heart might moral- 
ize? 
Or is it only a sweet slumber 
Stealing o'er sensation, 
Which the breath of roseate morning 
Chaseth into darkness ? 
Will lanthe wake again, 
And give that faithful bosom joy 
Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch 
Light, life and rapture, from her smile ? 

Yes ! she will wake again, 31 

Although her glowing limbs are motionless, 
And silent those sweet lips, 
Once breathing eloquence 
That might have soothed a tiger's rage 
Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror. 
Her dewy eyes are closed. 
And on their lids, whose texture fine 
Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath, 
The baby Sleep is pillowed ; 40 
Her golden tresses shade 
The bosom's stainless pride, 
Curling like tendrils of the parasite 
Around a marble column. 

Hark ! whence that rushing sound ? 

'Tis like the wondrous strain 
That round a lonely ruin swells. 
Which, wandering on the echoing shore, 

The enthusiast hears at evening ; 



'T is softer than the west wind's sigh ; 
'T is wilder than the unmeasured notes 
Of that strange lyre whose strings 52 
The genii of the breezes sweep ; 
Those lines of rainbow light 
Are like the moonbeams when they 
fall 
Through some cathedral window, but the 
tints 

Are such as may not find 
Comparison on earth. 

Behold the chariot of the Fairy Queen ! 
Celestial coursers paw the unyielding 
air; 6c 

Their filmy pennons at her word they 

furl, 
And stop obedient to the reins of light ; 
These the Queen of Spells drew in ; 
Slie spread a charm around the spot. 
And, leaning graceful from the ethereal 
car. 
Long did she gaze, and silently, 

Upon the slumbering maid. 

Oh ! not the visioned poet in his dreams. 
When silvery clouds float through the wil- 

dered brain, 
When every sight of lovely, wild and 
grand 70 

Astonishes, enraptures, elevates. 
When fancy at a glance combines 
The wondrous and the beautiful, — 
So bright, so fair, so wild a shape 
Hath ever yet beheld, 
As that which reined the coursers of the 
air 
And poured the magic of her gaze 
Upon the maiden's sleep. 

The broad and yellow moon 

Shone dimly through her form — 80 

That form of faultless symmetry; 

The pearly and pellucid car 

Moved not the moonlight's line. 
'T was not an earthly pageant. 

Those, who had looked upon the sight 
Passing all human glory, 
Saw not the yellow moon, 
Saw not the mortal scene, 
Heard not the night-wind's rush, 
Heard not an earthly sound, 90 

Saw but the fairy pageant. 
Heard but the heavenly strains 
That filled the lonely dwelling. 



QUEEN MAB 



The Fairy's frame was slight — yon fibrous 

cloud, 
That catches but the palest tinge of even, 
And which the straining eye can hardly 

seize 
When melting into eastern twilight's shad- 
ow. 
Were scarce so thin, so slight ; but the fair 

star 
That gems the glittering coronet of morn, 
Sheds not a light so mild, so powerful, loo 
As that which, bursting from the Fairy's 

form. 
Spread a purpureal halo round the scene, 
Yet with an undulating motion, 
Swayed to her outline gracefully. 

From her celestial car 

The Fairy Q\ieen descended, 

And thrice she waved her wand 

Circled with wreaths of amaranth; 
Her thin and misty form 
Moved with the moving air, no 

And the clear silver tones. 
As thus she spoke, were such 

As are unheard by all but gifted ear. 

FAIRY 

* Stars ! your balmiest influence shed ! 
Elements ! your wrath suspend ! 
Sleep, Ocean, in the rocky bounds 

That circle thy domain ! 
Let not a breath be seen to stir 
Around yon grass-grown ruin's height ! 
Let even the restless gossamer 120 

Sleep on the moveless air ! 
Soul of lanthe ! thou, 
Judged alone worthy of the envied boon 
That waits the good and the sincere ; that 

waits 
Those who have struggled, and with reso- 
lute will 
Vanquished earth's pride and meanness, 

burst the chains, 
The icy chains of custom, and have shone 
The day - stars of their age ; — Soul of 
lanthe ! 

Awake ! arise ! ' 

Sudden arose 130 

lanthe's Soul; it stood 
All beautiful in naked purity. 
The perfect semblance of its bodily frame ; 
Instinct with inexpressible beauty and 
grace — 



Each stain of earthliness 
Had passed away — it reassumed 
Its native dignity and stood 

Immortal amid ruin. 

Upon the couch the body lay. 

Wrapt in the depth of slumber; 140 

Its features were fixed and meaningless, 
Yet animal life was there. 
And every organ yet performed 
Its natural functions; 'twas a sight 

Of wonder to behold the body and the soul. 
The self-same lineaments, the same 
Marks of identity were there; 

Yet, oh, how different ! One aspires to 
Heaven, 

Pants for its sempiternal heritage. 

And, ever changing, ever rising still, 150 
Wantons in endless being: 

The other, for a time the unwilling sport 

Of circumstance and passion, struggles on; 

Fleets through its sad duration rapidly; 

Then like an useless and worn-out machine. 
Rots, perishes, and passes. 

FAIRY 

* Spirit ! who hast dived so deep; 
Spirit ! who hast soared so high; 
Thou the fearless, thou the mild, 

Accept the boon thy worth hath earned. 
Ascend the car with me ! ' 161 

SPIRIT 

* Do I dream ? Is this new feeling 
But a visioned ghost of slumber ? 

If indeed I am a soul, 
A free, a disembodied soul, 
Speak again to me.' 

FAIRY 

' I am the Fairy Mab: to me 'tis given 
The wonders of the human world to keep; 
The secrets of the immeasurable past, 
In the unfailing consciences of men, 170 
Those stern, unflattering chroniclers, I 

find; 
The future, from the causes which arise 
In each event, I gather; not the sting 
Which retribxitive memory implants 
In the hard bosom of the selfish man. 
Nor that ecstatic and exulting throb 
Which virtue's votary feels when he 

sums up 
The thoughts and actions of a well-spent 

day. 



QUEEN MAB 



Are unforeseen, unregistered by me; 
And it is yet permitted me to rend i8o 
The veil of mortal frailty, that the spirit, 
Clothed in its changeless purity, may 

know 
How soonest to accomplish the great 

end 
For which it hath its being, and may 

taste 
That peace which in the end all life will 

share. 
This is the meed of virtue; happy Soul, 
Ascend the car with me ! ' 

The chains of earth's immurement 

Fell from lanthe's spirit; 
They shrank and brake like bandages of 
straw 190 

Beneath a wakened giant's strength. 

She knew her glorious change, 
And felt in apprehension uncontrolled 

New raptures opening round; 
Each day-dream of her mortal life. 
Each frenzied vision of the slumbers 

That closed each well-spent day. 

Seemed now to meet reality. 
The Fairy and the Soul proceeded; 

The silver clouds disparted; 200 

And as the car of magic they ascended. 

Again the speechless music swelled, 

Again the coursers of the air 
Unfurled their azure pennons, and the 
Queen, 

Shaking the beamy reins, 

Bade them pursue their way. 

The magic car moved on. 
The night was fair, and countless stars 
Studded heaven's dark blue vault; 

Just o'er the eastern wave 210 

Peeped the first faint smile of morn. 

The magic car moved on — 

From the celestial hoofs 
The atmosphere in flaming sparkles flew. 

And where the burning wheels 
Eddied above the mountain'sloftiest peak. 

Was traced a line of lightning. 

Now it flew far above a rock, 

The utmost verge of earth, 219 

The rival of the Andes, whose dark brow 

Lowered o'er the silver sea. 

Far, far below the chariot's path, 
Calm as a slumbering babe, 
Tremendous Ocean lay. 



The mirror of its stillness showed 
The pale and waning stars, 
The chariot's fiery track, 
And the gray light of morn 
Tinging those fleecy clouds 
That canopied the dawn. 



230 



Seemed it that the chariot's way 
Lay through the midst of an immense con- 
cave 
Radiant with million constellations, tinged 
With shades of infinite color, 
And semicircled with a belt 
Flashing incessant meteors. 

The magic car moved on. 
As they approached their goal, 238 

The coursers seemed to gather speed; 
The sea no longer was distinguished; earth 
Appeared a vast and shadowy sphere; 
The sun's unclouded orb 
Rolled through the black concave ; 
Its rays of rapid light 
Parted around the chariot's swifter course. 
And fell, like ocean's feathery spray 

Dashed from the boiling surge 
• Before a vessel's prow. 

The magic car moved on. 
Earth's distant orb appeared 250 

The smallest light that twinkles in thtf 
heaven ; 
Whilst round the chariot's way 
Innumerable systems rolled 
And countless spheres diffused 
An ever-varying glory. 
It was a sight of wonder: some 
Were horned like the crescent moon; 
Some shed a mild and silver beam 
Like Hesperus o'er the western sea; 259 
Some dashed athwart with trains of flame, 
Like worlds to death and ruin driven; 
Some shone like suns, and as the chariot 
passed, 
Eclipsed all other light. 

Spirit of Nature ! here — 
In this interminable wilderness 
Of worlds, at whose immensity 
Even soaring fancy staggers, 
Here is thy fitting temple! 

Yet not the lightest leaf 269 

That quivers to the passing breeze 
Is less instinct with thee; 
Yet not the meanest worm 



QUEEN MAB 



That lurks in graves and fattens on the 

dead, 
Less shares thy eternal breath! 

Spirit of Nature! thou, 
Imperishable as this scene — 

Here is thy fitting temple! 

II 

If solitude hath ever led thy steps 
To the wild ocean's echoing shore, 
And thou hast lingered there, 
Until the sun's broad orb 

Seemed resting on the burnished wave, 
Thou must have marked the lines 

Of purple gold that motionless 
Hung o'er the sinking sphere ; 

Thou must have marked the billowy 
clouds, 

Edged with intolerable radiancy, lo 

Towering like rocks of jet 
Crowned with a diamond wreath; 
And yet there is a moment, 
When the sun's highest point 
Peeps like a star o'er ocean's western edge. 
When those far clouds of feathery gold. 

Shaded with deepest purple, gleam 

Like islands on a dark blue sea; 
Then has thy fancy soared above the earth 
And furled its wearied wing 20 

Within the Fairy's fane. 

Yet not the golden islands 
Gleaming in yon flood of light. 
Nor the feathery curtains 
Stretching o'er the su;i's bright couch, 
Nor the burnished ocean-waves 
Paving that gorgeous dome. 
So fair, so wonderful a sight 
As Mab's ethereal palace could afford. 29 
Yet likest evening's vault, that faery Hall ! 
As Heaven, low resting on the wave, it 
spread 

Its floors of flashing light, 
Its vast and azure dome, 
Its fertile golden islands 
Floating on a silver sea; 
Whilst suns their mingling beamings darted 
Through clouds of circumambient darkness. 
And pearly battlements around 
Looked o'er the immense of Heaven. 



The magic car no longer moved. 
The Fairy and the Spirit 
Entered the Hall of Spells. 
Those golden clouds 



40 



That rolled in glittering billows 
Beneath the azure canopy. 
With the ethereal footsteps trembled not; 

The light and crimson mists. 
Floating to strains of thrilling melody 
Through that unearthly dwelling, 
Yielded to every movement of the will; 50 
Upon their passive swell the Spirit leaned. 
And, for the varied bliss that pressed 
around, 
Used not the glorious privilege 
Of virtue and of wisdom. 

'Spirit!' the Fairy said. 
And pointed to the gorgeous dome, 
' Tins is a wondrous sight 
And mocks all human grandeur; 
But, were it virtue's only meed to dwell 
In a celestial palace, all resigned 60 

To pleasurable impulses, immured 
Within the prison of itself, the will 
Of changeless Nature would be unfulfilled. 
Learn to make others happy. Spirit, come! 
This is thine high reward: — the past shall 

rise; 
Thou shalt behold the present; I will teach 
The secrets of the future.' 

The Fairy and the Spirit 
Approached the overhanging battlement. 
Below lay stretched the universe! 70 
There, far as the remotest line 
That bounds imagination's flight, 

Countless and unending orbs 
In mazy motion intermingled, 
Yet still fulfilled immutably 
Eternal Nature's law. 
Above, below, around, 
The circling systems formed 
A wilderness of harmony; 
Each with undeviating aim, 80 

In eloquent silence, through the depths of 
space 

Pursued its wondrous way. 

There was a little light 
That twinkled in the misty distance. 

None but a spirit's eye 

Might ken that rolling orb. 

None but a spirit's eye. 

And in no other place 
But that celestial dwelling, might behold 
Each action of this earth's inhabitants, gt 

But matter, space, and time, 
In those aerial mansions cease to act; 



QUEEN MAB 



And all-prevailing wisdom, when it reaps 
The harvest of its excellence, o'erbounds 
Those obstacles of which an earthly soul 
Fears to attempt the conquest. 

The Fairy pointed to the earth. 
The Spirit's intellectual eye 
Its kindred beings recognized. 99 

The thronging thousands, to a passing view, 
Seemed like an ant-hill's citizens. 
How wonderful ! that even 
The passions, pnejudices, interests, 
That sway the meanest being — the weak 
touch 

That moves the finest nerve 
And in one human brain 
Causes the faintest thought, becomes a link 
In the great chain of Nature! 

' Behold,' the Fairy cried, 

'Palmyra's ruined palaces! no 

Behold where grandeur frowned! 

Behold where pleasure smiled! 
What now remains ? — the memory 

Of senselessness and shame. 

What is immortal there ? 

Nothing — it stands to tell 

A melancholy tale, to give 

An awful warning; soon 
Oblivion will steal silently 

The remnant of its fame. 120 

Monarchs and conquerors there 
Proud o'er prostrate millions trod — 
The earthquakes of the human race; 
Like them, forgotten when the ruin 

That marks their shock is past. 



' Beside the eternal Nile 
The Pyramids have risen. 
Nile shall pursue his changeless way; 

Those Pyramids shall fall. 
Yea! not a stone shall stand to tell 
The spot whereon they stood; 
Their very site shall be forgotten, 
As is their builder's name! 



130 



* Behold yon sterile spot, 
Where now the wandering Arab's tent 

Flaps in the desert blast! 
There once old Salem's haughty fane 
Reared high to heaven its thousand golden 
domes. 
And in the blushing face of day 

Exposed its shameful glory. 140 

Oh! many a widow, many an orphan cursed 



The building of that fane ; and many a 

father. 
Worn out with toil and slavery, implored 
The poor man's God to sweep it from the 

earth 
And spare his children the detested task 
Of piling stone on stone and poisoning 
The choicest days of life 
To soothe a dotard's vanity. 
There an inhuman and uncultured race 149 
Howled hideous praises to their Demon- 
God; 
They rushed to war, tore from the mother's 

womb 
The unborn child — old age and infancy 
Promiscuous perished; their victorious arms 
Left not a soul to breathe. Oh! they were 

fiends! 
But what was he who taught them that the 

God 
Of Nature and benevolence had given 
A special sanction to the trade of blood? 
His name and theirs are fading, and the 

tales 
Of this barbarian nation, which impos- 
ture 
Recites till terror credits, are pursuing 160 
Itself into forgetfulness. 

* Where Athens, Rome, and Sparta stood, 
There is a moral desert now. 
The mean and miserable huts. 
The yet more wretched palaces, 
Contrasted with those ancient fanes 
Now crumbling to oblivion, — 
The long and lonely colonnades 
Through which the ghost of Freedom 
stalks, — 
Seem like a well-known tune, 170 

Which in some dear scene we have loved 
to hear. 
Remembered now in sadness. 
But, oh ! how much more changed, 
How gloomier is the contrast 
Of human nature there ! 
Where Socrates expired, a tyrant's slave, 
A coward and a fool, spreads death 
around — 
Then, shuddering, meets his own. 
Where Cicero and Antoninus lived, 
A cowled and hypocritical monk 180 

Prays, curses and deceives. 

' Spirit ! ten thousand years 
Have scarcely passed away. 



8 



QUEEN MAB 



Since in the waste, where now the savage 

drinks 
His enemy's blood, and, aping Europe's 
sons, 
Wakes the unholy song of war. 
Arose a stately city, 
Metropolis of the western continent. 

There, now, the mossy column-stone, 
Indented by time's uurelaxing grasp, 190 
Which once appeared to brave 
All, save its country's ruin, — 
There the wide forest scene. 
Rude in the uncultivated loveliness 

Of gardens long run wild, — 
Seems, to the unwilling sojourner whose steps 

Chance in that desert has delayed. 
Thus to have stood since earth was what 
it is. 
Yet once it was the busiest haunt, 199 
Whither, as to a common centre, flocked 
Strangers, and ships, and merchandise ; 
Once peace and freedom blest 
The cultivated plain; 
But wealth, that curse of man, 
Blighted the bud of its prosperity; 
Virtue and wisdom, truth and liberty. 
Fled, to return not, until man shall know 
That they alone can give the bliss 
Worthy a soul that claims 
Itii kindred with eternity. 210 

* There 's not one atom of yon earth 
But once was living man ; 
Nor the minutest drop of rain, 
Tliat hangeth in its thinnest cloud, 
But flowed in human veins; 
And from the burning plains 
Where Libyan monsters yell. 
From the most gloomy glens 
Of Greenland's sunless clime, 
To where the golden fields 220 

Of fertile England spread 
Their harvest to the day. 
Thou canst not find one spot 
Whereon no city stood. 

' How strange is human pride ! 
I tell thee that those living things. 
To whom the fragile blade of grass 

That springeth in the morn 

And perisheth ere noon. 

Is an unbounded world; 230 

I tell thee that those viewless beings, 
Whose mansion is the smallest particle 

Of the impassive atmosphere, 



Think, feel and live like man; 
That their affections and antipathies, 

Like his, produce the laws 

Ruling their moral state; 

And the minutest throb 
That through their frame diffuses 

The slightest, faintest motion, 24s 

Is fixed and indispensable 

As the majestic laws 

That rule yon rolling orbs.' 

The Fairy paused. The Spirit, 
In ecstasy of admiration, felt 
All knowledge of the past revived ; the 
events 
Of old and wondrous times. 
Which dim tradition interruptedly 
Teaches the credulous vulgar, were un- 
folded 
In just perspective to the view; 250 

Yet dim from their infinitude. 
The Spirit seemed to stand 
High on an isolated pinnacle; 
The flood of ages combating below. 
The depth of the unbounded universe 
Above, and all around 
Nature's unchanging harmony. 

Ill 

* Fairy ! ' the Spirit said, 
And on the Queen of Spells 
Fixed her ethereal eyes, 

' I thank thee. Thou hast given 
A boon which I will not resign, and taught 
A lesson not to be unlearned. I know 
The past, and thence I will essay to glean 
A warning for the future, so that man 
May profit by his errors and derive 

Experience from his folly; i« 

For, when the power of imparting joy 
Is equal to the will, the human soul 

Requires no other heaven.' 

MAB 

' Turn thee, surpassing Spirit ! 
Much yet remains unscanned. 
Thou knowest how great is man, 
Thou knowest his imbecility; 
Yet learn thou what he is: 
Yet learn the lofty destiny 
Which restless Time prepares 2a 

For every living soul. 

* Behold a gorgeous palace that amid 
You populous city rears its thousand towers 



QUEEN MAB 



And seems itself a city. Gloomy troops 
Of sentinels in stern and silent ranks 
Encompass it around; the dweller there 
Cannot be free and happy; hearest thou 

not 
The curses of the fatherless, the groans 
Of those who have no friend ? He passes 

on — 
The King, the wearer of a gilded chain 30 
That binds his soul to abjectness, the fool 
Whom courtiers nickname monarch, whilst 

a slave 
Even to the basest appetites — that man 
Heeds not the shriek of penury; he smiles 
At the deep curses which the destitute 
Mutter in secret, and a sullen joy 
Pervades his bloodless heart when thou- 
sands groan 
But for those morsels which his wantonness 
Wastes in unjoyous revelry, to save 
All that they love from famine ; when he 

hears 40 

The tale of horror, to some ready-made 

face 
Of hypocritical assent he turns, 
Smothering the glow of shame, that, spite 

of him, 
Flushes his bloated cheek. 

Now to the meal 
Of silence, grandeur and excess he drags 
His palled unwilling appetite. If gold. 
Gleaming around, and numerous viands 

culled 
From every clime could force the loathing 

sense 
To overcome satiety, — if wealth 
The spring it draws from poisons not, — or 

vice, 50 

Unfeeling, stubborn vice, converteth not 
Its food to deadliest venom ; then that king 
Is happy ; and the peasant who fulfils 
His unforced task, when he returns at even 
And by the blazing fagot meets again 
Her welcome for whom all his toil is sped. 
Tastes not a sweeter meal. 

Behold him now 
Stretched on the gorgeous couch ; his fe- 
vered brain 
Reels dizzily awhile ; but ah ! too soon 
The slumber of intemperance subsides, 60 
And conscience, that undying serpent, calls 
Her venomous brood to their nocturnal 
task. 



Listen ! he speaks ! oh ! mark that frenzied 

eye — 
Oh ! mark that deadly visage I ' 

KING 

* No cessation ! 
Oh ! must this last forever ! Awful death, 
I wish, yet fear to clasp thee ! — Not one 

moment 
Of dreamless sleep ! O dear and blessed 

Peace, 
Why dost thou shroud thy vestal purity 
In penury and dungeons ? Wherefore 

lurkest 
With danger, death, and solitude ; yet 

shun'st 70 

The palace I have built thee ? Sacred 

Peace ! 
Oh, visit me but once, — but pitying shed 
One drop of balm upon my withered soul ! ' 

THE FAIRY 

' Vain man ! that palace is the virtuous 

heart, 
And Peace defileth not her snowy robes 
In such a shed as thine. Hark ! yet he 

mutters ; 
His slumbers are but varied agonies ; 
They prey like scorpions on the springs of 

life. 
There needeth not the hell that bigots 

frame 
To punish those who err ; earth in itself 80 
Contains at once the evil and the cure ; 
And all-sufficing Nature can chastise 
Those who transgress her law ; she only 

knows 
How justly to proportion to the fault 
The punishment it merits. 

Is it strange 
That this poor wretch should pride him in 

his woe ? 
Take pleasure in his abjectness, and hug 
The scorpion that consumes him ? Is it 

strange 
That, placed on a conspicuous throne of 

thorns, 
Grasping an iron sceptre, and immured 90 
Within a splendid prison whose stern 

bounds 
Shut him from all that's good or dear on 

earth. 
His soul asserts not its humanity ? 
That man's mild nature rises not in war 



lO 



QUEEN MAB 



Against a king's employ ? No — 'tis not 

strange. 
He, like the vulgar, thinks, feels, acts, and 

lives 
Just as his father did ; the unconquered 

powers 
Of precedent and custom interpose 
Between a king and virtue. Stranger yet, 
To those who know not Nature nor de- 
duce lOO 

The future from the present, it may seem. 
That not one slave, who suffers from the 

crimes 
Of this unnatural being, not one wretch, 
Whose children famish and whose nuptial 

bed 
Is earth's unpitying bosom, rears an arm 
To dash him from his throne ! 

Those gilded flies 
That, basking in the sunshine of a court. 
Fatten on its corruption ! what are they ? — 
The drones of the community ; they feed 
On the mechanic's labor ; the starved 

hind no 

For them compels the stubborn glebe to 

yield 
Its unshared harvests ; and yon squalid 

form, 
Leaner than fleshless misery, that wastes 
A sunless life in the unwholesome mine. 
Drags out in labor a protracted death 
To glut their grandeur ; many faint with 

toil 
That few may know the cares and woe of 

sloth. 

Whence, thinkest thou, kings and parasites 

arose ? 
Whence that unnatural line of drones who 

heap 
Toil and unvanquishable penury 120 

On those who build their palaces and bring 
Their daily bread ? — From vice, black 

loathsome vice ; 
From rapine, madness, treachery, and 

wrong ; 
From all that genders misery, and makes 
Of earth this thorny wilderness ; from lust, 
Revenge, and murder. — And when reason's 

voice. 
Loud as the voice of Nature, shall have 

waked 
The nations ; and mankind perceive that 

vice 



Is discord, war and misery ; that virtue 
Is peace and happiness and harmony ; 130 
When man's maturer nature shall disdain 
The playthings of its childhood ; — kingly 

glare 
Will lose its power to dazzle ; its authority 
Will silently pass by ; the gorgeous throne 
Shall stand unnoticed in the regal hall. 
Fast falling to decay ; whilst falsehood's 

trade 
Shall be as hateful and unprofitable 
As that of truth is now. 

Where is the fame 

Which the vain-glorious mighty of the earth 

Seek to eternize ? Oh ! the faintest 

sound 140 

From time's light footfall, the minutest 

wave 
That swells the flood of ages, whelms in 

nothing 
The unsubstantial bubble. Ay ! to-day 
Stern is the tyrant's mandate, red the gaze 
That flashes desolation, strong the arm 
That scatters multitudes. To - morrow 

comes ! 
That mandate is a thunder-peal that died 
In ages past ; that gaze, a transient flash 
On which the midnight closed ; and on that 
arm 149 

The worm has made his meal. 

The virtuous man, 
Who, great in his humility as kings 
Are little in their grandeur; he who leads 
Invincibly a life of resolute good 
And stands amid the silent dungeon-depths 
More free and fearless than the trembling 

judge 
Who, clothed in venal power, vainly strove 
To bind the impassive spirit; — when he 

falls, 
His mild eye beams benevolence no more; 
Withered the hand outstretched but to re- 
lieve; 159 
Sunk reason's simple eloquence that rolled 
But to appall the guilty. Yes! the grave 
Hath quenched that eye and death's relent- 
less frost 
Withered that arm ; but the unfading fame 
Which virtue hangs upon its votary's tomb. 
The deathless memory of that man whom 

kings 
Call to their minds and tremble, the re- 
membrance 
With which the ^appy spirit contemplates 



QUEEN MAB 



II 



Its well-spent pilgrimage on earth, 
Shall never pass away. 



169 



* Nature rejects the monarch, not the man; 
The subject, not the citizen; for kings 
And subjects, mutual foes, forever play 
A losing game into each other's hands, 
Whose stakes are vice and misery. The man 
Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys. 
Power, like a desolating pestilence. 
Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience. 
Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, 
Makes slaves of men, and of the human 
frame 179 

A mechanized automaton. 

When Nero 
High over flaming Rome with savage joy 
Lowered like a fiend, drank with enrap- 
tured ear 
The shrieks of agonizing death, beheld 
The frightful desolation spread, and felt 
A new-created sense within his soul 
Thrill to the sight and vibrate to the 

sound, — 
Thinkest thou his grandeur had not over- 
come 
The force of human kindness ? And when 

Rome 
With one stern blow hurled not the tyrant 

down, 
Crushed not the arm red with her dearest 
blood, 190 

Had not submissive abjectness destroyed 
Nature's suggestions ? 

Look on yonder earth: 
The golden harvests spring; the unfailing 

sun 
Sheds light and life ; the fruits, the flowers, 

the trees. 
Arise in due succession ; all things speak 
Peace, harmony and love. The universe. 
In Nature's silent eloquence, declares 
That all fulfil the works of love and joy, — 
All but the outcast, Man. He fabricates 
The sword which stabs his peace; he 

cherisheth 200 

The snakes that gnaw his heart; he raiseth 

The tyrant whose delight is in his woe, 
Whose sport is in his agony. Yon sun, 
Lights it the great alone ? Yon silver 

beams, 
Sleep they less sweetly on the cottage thatch 



Than on the dome of kings ? Is mother 

earth 
A step-dame to her numerous sons who earn 
Her unshared gifts with unremitting toil; 
A mother only to those puling babes 209 
Who, nursed iu ease and luxui-y, make men 
The playthings of their babyhood and mar 
In self-important childishness that peace 
Which men alone appreciate ? 

* Spirit of Nature, no ! 

The pure diffusion of thy essence throbs 
Alike in every human heart. 

Thou aye erectest there 
Thy throne of power unappealable; 
Thou art the judge beneath whose nod 
Man's brief and frail authority 22a 

Is powerless as the vsdnd 

That passeth idly by; 
Thine the tribunal which surpasseth 

The show of human justice 

As God surpasses man! 

* Spirit of Nature ! thou 
Life of interminable multitudes; 

Soul of those mighty spheres 
Whose changeless paths through Heaven's 
deep silence lie; 
Soul of that smallest being, 230 

The dwelling of whose life 
Is one faint April sun-gleam ; — 
Man, like these passive things, 
Thy will unconsciously fulfilleth; 

Like theirs, his age of endless peace, 
Which time is fast maturing, 
Will swiftly, surely, come; 
And the unbounded frame which thou per- 
vadest. 
Will be without a flaw 
Marring its perfect symmetry! 



240 



IV 



' How beautiful this night ! the balmiest 

sigh. 
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's 

ear. 
Were discord to the speaking quietude 
That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's 

ebon vault. 
Studded with stars unutterably bright, 
Through which the moon's unclouded gran- 
deur rolls, 
Seems like a canopy which love had spread 
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle 
hills. 



12 



QUEEN MAB 



Robed in a garment of nutrodflen snow; 9 
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend 
So stainless that their white and glittering 

spires 
Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon 

castled steep 
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn 

tower 
So idly that rapt fancy deemeth it 
A metaphor of peace ; — all form a scene 
Where musing solitude might love to lift 
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness; 
Where silence undisturbed might watch 

alone — 
So cold, so bright, so still. 

The orb of day 
In southern climes o'er ocean's waveless 

field 20 

Sinks sweetly smiling ; not the faintest 

breath 
Steals o'er the unruffled deep ; the clouds 

of eve 
Reflect unmoved the lingering beam of day; 
And Vesper's image on the western main 
Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes: 
Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening 

mass, 
Roll o'er the blackened waters; the deep 

roar 
Of distant thunder mutters awfully; 
Tempest unfolds its pinion o'er the gloom 
That shrouds the boiling surge ; the pitiless 

fiend, 30 

With all his winds and lightnings, tracks 

his prey; 
The torn deep yawns, — the vessel finds a 

grave 
Beneath its jagged gulf. 

Ah ! whence yon glare 
That fires the arch of heaven ? that dark 

red smoke 
Blotting the silver moon ? The stars are 

quenched 
In darkness, and the pure and spangling 

snow 
Gleams faintly through the gloom that 

gathers round. 
Hark to that roar whose swift and deafen- 
ing peals 
In countless echoes through the mountains 

ring, 
Startling pale Midnight on her starry 

throne ! 40 



Now swells the intermingling din; the jar 
Frequent and frightful of the bursting 

bomb ; 
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, 

the shout, 
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men 
Inebriate with rage: — loud and more loud 
The discord grows; till pale Death shuts 

the scene 
And o'er the conqueror and the conquered 

draws 
His cold and bloody shroud. — Of all the 

men 
Whom day's departing beam saw blooming 

there 
In proud and vigorous health; of all the 

hearts 50 

That beat with anxious life at sunset there; 
How few survive, how few are beating 

now ! 
All is deep silence, like the fearful calm 
That slumbers in the storm's portentous 

pause ; 
Save when the frantic wail of widowed love 
Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint 

moan 
With which some soul bursts from the 

frame of clay 
Wrapt round its struggling powers. 

The gray morn 
Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphur- 
ous smoke 
Before the icy wind slow rolls away, 60 

And the bright beams of frosty morning 

dance 
Along the spangling snow. There tracks 

of blood 
Even to the forest's depth, and scattered 

arms, 
And lifeless warriors, whose hard linea- 
ments 
Death's self could change not, mark the 

dreadful path 
Of the outsallying victors; far behind 
Black ashes note where their proud city 

stood. 
Within yon forest is a gloomy glen — 
Each tree which guards its darkness from 
the day, 69 

Waves o'er a warrior's tomb. 

I see thee shrink, 
Surpassing Spirit ! — wert thou human 
else? 



QUEEN MAB 



13 



I see a shade of doubt aud horror fleet 

Across thy stainless features; yet fear not; 

This is no unconnected misery, 

Nor stands uncaused and irretrievable. 

Man's evil nature, that apology 

Which kings who rule, and cowards who 

crouch, set up 
For their unnumbered crimes, sheds not 

the blood 
Which desolates the discord-wasted land. 
From kings and priests and statesmen war 

arose, 80 

Whose safety is man's deep unbettered 

woe. 
Whose grandeur his debasement. Let the 

axe 
Strike at the root, the poison-tree will fall; 
And where its venoraed exhalations spread 
Ruin, and death, and woe, where millions 

lay 
Quenching the serpent's famine, and their 

bones 
Bleaching unburied in the putrid blast, 
A garden shall arise, in loveliness 
Surpassing fabled Eden. 

Hath Nature's soul, — 
That formed this world so beautiful, that 

spread 90 

Earth's lap with plenty, and life's smallest 

chord 
Strung to unchanging unison, that gave 
The happy birds their dwelling in the 

grove. 
That yielded to the wanderers of the deep 
The lovely silence of the unfathomed main, 
And filled the meanest worm that crawls in 

dust 
W^ith spirit, thought and love, — on Man 

alone. 
Partial in causeless malice, wantonly 
Heaped ruin, vice, and slavery; his soul 99 
Blasted with withering curses; placed afar 
The meteor-happiness, that shuns his grasp, 
But serving on the frightful gulf to glare 
Rent wide beneath his footsteps ? 

Nature ! — no ! 

Kings, priests and statesmen blast the hu- 
man flower 

Even in its tender bud; their influence 
darts 

Like subtle poison through the bloodless 
veins 

Of desolate society. The child. 



Ere he can lisp his mother's sacred name, 
Swells with the unnatural pride of crime, 

and lifts 
His baby-sword even in a hero's mood, no 
This infant arm becomes the bloodiest 

scourge 
Of devastated earth ; whilst specious names. 
Learnt in soft childhood's unsuspecting 

hour, 
Serve as the sophisms v/ith which manhood 

dims 
Bright reason's ray and sanctifies the sword 
Upraised to shed a brother's innocent 

blood. 
Let priest-led slaves cease to proclaim that 

man 
Inherits vice and misery, when force 
And falsehood hang even o'er the cradled 

babe, irg 

Stifling with rudest grasp all natural good. 

* Ah ! to the stranger-soul, when first it 

peeps 
From its new tenement and looks abroad 
For happiness and sympathy, how stern 
And desolate a tract is this wide world ! 
How withered all the buds of natural good ! 
No shade, no shelter from the sweeping 

storms 
Of pitiless power ! On its wretched frame 
Poisoned, perchance, by the disease and 

woe 
Heaped on the wretched parent whence it 

sprung 129 

By morals, law and custom, the pure winds 
Of heaven, that renovate the insect tribes. 
May breathe not. The untainting light of 

day 
May visit not its longings. It is bound 
Ere it has life; yea, all the chains are 

forged 
Long ere its being; all liberty and love 
And peace is torn from its defencelessness; 
Cursed from its birth, even from its cradle 

doomed 
To abjectness and bondage ! 

* Throughout this varied and eternal world 
Soul is the only element, the block 140 
That for uncounted ages has remained. 
The moveless pillar of a mountain's weight 
Is active living spirit. Every grain 

Is sentient both in unity and part, 

And the minutest atom comprehends 

A world of loves and hatreds; these begef 



14 



QUEEN MAB 



Evil and good; hence truth and falsehood 

spring; 
Hence will and thought and action, all the 

germs 
Of pain or pleasure, sympathy or hate. 
That variegate the eternal universe. 150 
Soul is not more polluted than the beams 
Of heaven's pure orb ere round their rapid 

lines 
The taint of earth-born atmospheres arise. 

* Man is of soul and body, formed for deeds 
Of high resolve; on fancy's boldest wing 
To soar unwearied, fearlessly to turn 
The keenest pangs to peacefulness, and 

taste 
The joys which mingled sense and spirit 

yield; 
Or he is formed for abjectness and woe. 
To grovel on the dunghill of his fears, 160 
To shrink at every sound, to quench the 

flame 
Of natural love in sensualism, to know 
That hour as blest when on his worthless 

days 
The frozen hand of death shall set its seal. 
Yet fear the cure, though hating the disease. 
The one is man that shall hereafter be; 
The other, man as vice has made him now. 

' War is the statesman's game, the priest's 

delight, 
The lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade. 
And to those royal murderers whose mean 

thrones 170 

Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore. 
The bread they eat, the staff on which they 

lean. 
Guards, garbed in blood-red livery, sur- 
round 
Their palaces, participate the crimes 
That force defends and from a nation's rage 
Secures the crown, which all the curses 

reach 
That famine, frenzy, woe and penury 

breathe. 
These are the hired bravos who defend 
The tyrant's throne — the bullies of his fear; 
These are the sinks and channels of worst 

vice, 180 

The refuse of society, the dregs 
Of all that is most vile; their cold hearts 

blend 
Deceit with sternness, ignorance with pride. 
All that is mean and villainous with rage 



Which hopelessness of good and self-con- 
tempt 
Alone might kindle; they are decked in 

wealth. 
Honor and power, then are sent abroad 
To do their work. The pestilence that 

stalks 
In gloomy triumph through some eastern 
land 189 

Is less destroying. They cajole with gold 
And promises of fame the thoughtless youth 
Already crushed with servitude; he knows 
His wretchedness too late, and cherishes 
Repentance for his ruin, when his doom 
Is sealed in gold and blood ! 
Those too the tyrant serve, who, skilled to 

snare 
The feet of justice in the toils of law. 
Stand ready to oppress the weaker still, 
And right or wrong will vindicate for gold, 
Sneering at public virtue, which beneath 
Their pitiless tread lies torn and trampled 
where 201 

Honor sits smiling at the sale of truth. ^ 

* Then grave and hoary-headed hypocrites, 
Without a hope, a passion or a love. 
Who through a life of luxury and lies 
Have crept by flattery to the seats of power, 
Support the system whence their honors 

flow. 
They have three words — well tyrants know 

their use. 
Well pay them for the loan with usury 
Torn from a bleeding world ! — God, Hell 

and Heaven: 210 

A vengeful, pitiless, and almighty fiend, 
Whose mercy is a nickname for the rage 
Of tameless tigers hungering for blood; 
Hell, a red gulf of everlasting fire, 
Where poisonous and undying worms pro- 
long 
Eternal misery to those hapless slaves 
Whose life has been a penance for its 

crimes; 
And Heaven, a meed for those who dare 

belie 
Their human nature, quake, believe and 

cringe /T 

Before the mockeiies of earthly power. 220 

'These tools the tyrant tempers to his 
work. 

Wields in his wrath, and as he wills de- 
stroys, 



QUEEN MAB 



15 



Omnipotent in wickedness; the while 
Youth springs, age moulders, manhood 

tamely does 
His bidding, bribed by short-lived joys to 

lend 
Force to the weakness of his trembling 

arm. 
They rise, they fall; one generation comes 
Yielding its harvest to destruction's scythe. 
It fades, another blossoms; yet behold ! 
Red glows the tyrant's stamp-mark on its 

bloom, 230 

Withering and cankering deep its passive 

prime. 
He has invented lying words and modes. 
Empty and vain as his own coreless heart; 
Evasive meanings, nothings of much sound, 
To lure the heedless victim to the toils 
Spread round the valley of its paradise. 

'Look to thyself, priest, conqueror or 



prince 



Whether thy trade is falsehood, and thy 

lusts 
Deep wallow in the earnings of the poor. 
With whom thy master was; or thou de- 

light'st 240 

In numbering o'er the myriads of thy slain. 
All misery weighing nothing in the scale 
Against thy short-lived fame; or thou dost 

load 
With cowardice and crime the groaning 

land, 
A pomp-fed king. Look to thy wretched 

self! 
Ay, art thou not the veriest slave that e'er 
Crawled on the loathing earth ? Are not 

thy days 
Days of unsatisfying listlessness ? 
Dost thou not cry, ere night's long rack is 

o'er, 
" When will the morning come ? " Is not 

thy youth 250 

A vain and feverish dream of sensualism ? 
Thy manhood blighted with unripe disease ? 
Are not thy views of unregretted death 
Drear, comfortless and horrible ? Thy 

mind. 
Is it not morbid as thy nerveless frame, 
Incapable of judgment, hope or love ? 
And dost thou wish the errors to survive, 
That bar thee from all sympathies of good. 
After the miserable interest 
Thou hold'st in their protraction ? When 

the grave 260 



Has swallowed up thy memory and thyself, 
Dost thou desire the bane that poisons 

earth 
To twine its roots around thy coffined clay, 
Spring from thy bones, and blossom on thy 

tomb. 
That of its fruit thy babes may eat and 

die? 



* Thus do the generations of the earth 
Go to the grave and issue from the womb, 
Surviving still the imperishable change 
That renovates the world ; even as the 

leaves 
Which the keen frost-wind of the waning 

year 
Has scattered on the forest-soil and heaped 
For many seasons there — though long they 

choke. 
Loading with loathsome rottenness the land, 
All germs of promise, yet when the tall 

trees 
From which they fell, shorn of their lovely 

shapes, jo 

Lie level with the earth to moulder there, 
They fertilize the land they long deformed; 
Till from the breathing lawn a forest 

springs 
Of youth, integrity and loveliness. 
Like that which gave it life, to spring and 

die. 
Thus suicidal selfishness, that blights 
The fairest feelings of the opening heart, 
Is destined to decay, whilst from the soil 
Shall spring all virtue, all delight, all love, 
And judgment cease to wage unnatural 

war 20 

With passion's unsubduable array. 
Twin-sister of Religion, Selfishness ! 
Rival in crime and falsehood, aping all 
The wanton horrors of her bloody play J 
Yet frozen, unimpassioned, spiritless, 
Shunning the light, and owning not its 

name. 
Compelled by its deformity to screen 
With flimsy veil of justice and of right 
Its unattractive lineaments that scare 
All save the brood of ignorance; at once 30 
The cause and the effect of tyranny; 
Unblushing, hardened, sensual and vile; 
Dead to all love but of its abjectness; 
With heart impassive by more noble powers 
Than unshared pleasure, sordid gain, 01 

fame; 



i6 



QUEEN MAB 



Despising its own miserable being, 
Which still it longs, yet fears, to disen- 
thrall. 

* Hence commerce springs, the venal inter- 

change 
Of all that human art or Nature yield ; 
Which wealth should purchase not, but 
want demand, 4° 

And natural kindness hasten to supply 
From the full fountain of its boundless 

love, 
Forever stifled, drained and tainted now. 
Commerce ! beneath whose poison-breath- 
ing shade 
No solitary virtue dares to spring, 
But poverty and wealth with equal hand 
Scatter their withering curses, and unfold 
The doors of premature and violent death 
To pining famine and full-fed disease, 
To all that shares the lot of human life, 50 
Which, poisoned body and soul, scarce 

drags the chain 
That lengthens as it goes and clanks be- 
hind. 

* Commerce has set the mark of selfishness. 
The signet of its all-enslaving power, 
Upon a shining ore, and called it gold ; 
Before whose image bow the vulgar great. 
The vainly rich, the miserable proud, 

The mob of peasants, nobles, priests and 

kings, 
And with blind feelings reverence the 

power 
That grinds them to the dust of misery. 60 
But in the temple of their hireling hearts 
Gold is a living god and rules in scorn 
All earthly things but virtue. 

* Since tyrants by the sale of human life 
Heap luxuries to their sensualism, and 

fame 
To their wide-wasting and insatiate pride. 
Success has sanctioned to a credulous world 
The ruin, the disgrace, the woe of war. 
His hosts of blind and unresisting dupes 
The despot numbers ; from his cabinet 70 
These puppets of his schemes he moves at 

will, 
Even as the slaves by force or famine 

driven. 
Beneath a vulgar master, to perform 
A task of cold and brutal drudgery ; — 
Hardened to hope, insensible to fear, 



Scarce living pulleys of a dead machine. 
Mere wheels of work and articles of trade, 
That grace the proud and noisy pomp of 
wealth ! 

' The harmony and happiness of man 
Yields to the wealth of nations; that which 
lifts 80 

His nature to the heaven of its pride. 
Is bartered for the poison of his soul; 
The weight that drags to earth his tower- 
ing hopes. 
Blighting all prospect but of selfish gain, 
Withering all passion but of slavish fear. 
Extinguishing all free and generous love 
Of enterprise and daring, even the pulse 
That fancy kindles in the beating heart 
To mingle with sensation, it destroys, — 
Leaves nothing but the sordid lust of 
self, 90 

The grovelling hope of interest and gold, 
Unqualified, unmingled, unredeemed 
Even by hypocrisy. 

And statesmen boast 
Of wealth ! The wordy eloquence that 

lives 
After the ruin of their hearts, can gild 
The bitter poison of a nation's woe ; 
Can turn the worship of the servile mob 
To their corrupt and glaring idol, fame, 
From virtue, trampled b}' its iron tread, — 
Although its dazzling pedestal be raised 100 
Amid the horrors of a limb-strewn field. 
With desolated dwellings smoking round. 
The man of ease, who, by his warm fire- 
side. 
To deeds of charitable intercourse 
And bare fulfilment of the common laws 
Of decency and prejudice confines 
The struggling nature of his human heart. 
Is duped by their cold sophistry; he sheds 
A passing tear perchance upon the wreck 
Of earthly peace, when near his dwelling's 

door no 

The frightful waves are driven, — when his 

son 
Is murdered by the tyrant, or religion 
Drives his wife raving mad. But the poor 

man 
Whose life is misery, and fear and care; 
Whom the morn wakens but to fruitless 

toil; 
Who ever hears his famished offspriag's 

scream ; 



QUEEN MAB 



17 



Whom their pale mother's uncomplaining 

gaze 
Forever meets, and the proud rich man's 

eye 
Flashing command, and the heart-breaking 

scene 
Of thousands like himself ; — he little heeds 
The rhetoric of tyranny ; his hate 121 

Is quenchless as his wrongs ; he laughs to 

scorn 
The vain and bitter mockery of words, 
Feeling the horror of the tyrant's deeds. 
And unrestrained but by the arm of power. 
That knows and dreads his enmity. 

' The iron rod of penury still compels 
Her wretched slave to bow the knee to 

wealth, 
And poison, with unprofitable toil, 
A life too void of solace to confirm 130 

The very chains that bind him to his doom. 
Nature, impartial in munificence, 
Has gifted man with all-subduing will. 
Matter, with all its transitory shapes, 
Lies subjected and plastic at his feet, 
That, weak from bondage, tremble as they 

tread. 
How many a rustic Milton has passed by, 
Stifling the speechless longings of his heart. 
In unremitting drudgery and care ! 
How many a vulgar Cato has compelled 140 
His energies, no longer tameless then, 
To mould a pin or fabricate a nail ! 
How many a Newton, to whose passive ken 
Those mighty spheres that gem infinity 
Were only specks of tinsel fixed in heaven 
To light the midnights of his native town ! 

* Yet every heart contains perfection's 

germ. 
The wisest of the sages of the earth, 
That ever from the stores of reason drew 
Science and truth, and virtue's dreadless 

tone, 150 

Were but a weak and inexperienced boy, 
Proud, sensual, unimpassioned, unimbued 
With pure desire and universal love, 
Compared to that high being, of cloudless 

brain, 
Untainted passion, elevated will. 
Which death (who even would linger long 

in awe 
Within his noble presence and beneath 
His changeless eye-beam) might alone sub- 

due- 



Him, every slave now dragging through 

the filth 
Of some corrupted city his sad life, i6a 
Pining with famine, swoln with luxury, 
Blunting the keenness of his spiritual sense 
With narrow schemings and unworthy 

cares. 
Or madly rushing through all violent crime 
To move the deep stagnation of his soul, — 
Might imitate and equal. 

But mean lust 
Has bound its chains so tight about the 

earth 
That all within it but the virtuous man 
Is venal ; gold or fame will surely reach 
The price prefixed by Selfishness to all 170 
But him of resolute and unchanging will ; 
Whom nor the plaudits of a servile crowd, 
Nor the vile joys of tainting luxury, 
Can bribe to yield his elevated soul 
To Tyranny or Falsehood, though they 

wield 
With blood-red hand the sceptre of the 

world. 

' All things are sold : the very light of 

heaven 
Is venal ; earth's unsparing gifts of love. 
The smallest and most despicable things 
That lurk in the abysses of the deep, 180 
All objects of our life, even life itself, 
And the poor pittance which the laws al- 
low 
Of liberty, the fellowship of man. 
Those duties which his heart of human love 
Should urge him to perform instinctively. 
Are bought and sold as in a public mart 
Of undisguising Selfishness, that sets 
On each its price, the stamp-mark of hei 

reigUo 
Even love is sold ; the solace of all woe 
Is turned to deadliest agony, old age 190 
Shivers in selfish beauty's loathing arms, 
And youth's corrupted impulses prepare 
A life of horror from the blighting bane 
Of commerce ; whilst the pestilence that 

springs 
From unen joying sensualism, has filled 
All human life with hydra-headed woes. 

* Falsehood demands but gold to pay the 

pangs 
Of outraged conscience; for the slavish 

priest 



i8 



QUEEN MAB 



Sets no great value on his hireling faith ; 
A little passing pomp, some servile 

souls, 200 

Whom cowardice itself might safely chain 
Or the spare mite of avarice could bribe 
To deck the triumph of their languid zeal, 
Can make him minister to tyranny. 
More daring crime requires a loftier meed. 
Without a shudder the slave-soldier lends 
His arm to murderous deeds, and steels his 

heart, 
When the dread eloquence of dying men. 
Low mingling on the lonely field of fame. 
Assails that nature whose applause he 

sells 210 

For the gross blessings of the patriot mob. 
For the vile gratitude of heartless kings, 
And for a cold world's good word, — viler 

still ! 

* There is a nobler glory which survives 
Until our being fades, and, solacing 

All human care, accompanies its change; 
Deserts not virtue in the dungeon's gloom. 
And in the precincts of the palace guides 
Its footsteps through that labyrinth of 

crime ; 
Imbues his lineaments with dauntless- 

ness, 220 

Even when from power's avenging hand he 

takes 
Its sweetest, last and noblest title — death ; 
— The consciousness of good, which neither 

gold, 
Nor sordid fame, nor hope of heavenly 

bliss, 
Can purchase ; but a life of resolute good, 
Unalterable will, quenchless desire 
Of universal happiness, the heart 
That beats with it in unison, the brain 
Whose ever-wakeful wisdom toils to change 
Reason's rich stores for its eternal weal. 230 

* This commerce of sincerest virtue needs 
No meditative signs of selfishness. 

No jealous intercourse of wretched gain. 
No balancings of prudence, cold and long ; 
In just and equal measure all is weighed, 
One scale contains the sum of human weal. 
And one, the good man's heart. 

How vainly seek 
The selfish for that happiness denied 
To aught but virtue ! Blind and hardened, 
they, 



Who hope for peace amid the storms of 

care, 240 

Who covet power they know not how to 

use, 
And sigh for pleasure they refuse to give, — 
Madly they frustrate still their own de- 
signs; 
And, where they hope that quiet to en- 

Which virtue pictures, bitterness of soul, 
Pining regrets, and vain repentances. 
Disease, disgust and lassitude pervade 
Their valueless and miserable lives. 

' But hoary-headed selfishness has felt 

Its death-blow and is tottering to the 

grave; 250 

A brighter morn awaits the human day. 
When every transfer of earth's natural 

gifts 
Shall be a commerce of good words and 

works ; 
When poverty and wealth, the thirst of 

fame, 
The fear of infamy, disease and woe. 
War with its million horrors, and fierce 

hell. 
Shall live but in the memory of time. 
Who, like a penitent libertine, shall start. 
Look back, and shudder at his younger 

years.' 

VI 

All touch, all eye, all ear, 
The Spirit felt the Fairy's burning speech. 

O'er the thin texture of its frame 
The varying periods painted changing 
glows, 

As on a summer even, 
When soul-enfolding music floats around, 
The stainless mirror of the lake 
Re-images the eastern gloom, 
Mingling convulsively its purple hues 

With sunset's burnished gold. 10 
Then thus the Spirit spoke : 
' It is a wild and miserable world ! 
Thorny, and full of care, 
Which every fiend can make his prey at 
will! 
O Fairy ! in the lapse of years, 
Is tliere no hope in store ? 
Will yon vast suns roll on 
Interminably, still illuming 
The night of so many wretched souls, 
And see no hope for them ? 20 



QUEEN MAB 



19 



Will not the universal Spirit e'er 
Revivify this withered limb of Heaven ? ' 

The Fairy calmly smiled 
In comfort, and a kindling gleam of hope 

Suffused the Spirit's lineaments. 
•Oh ! rest thee tranquil; chase those fear- 
ful doubts 
Which ne'er could rack an everlasting soul 
That sees the chains which bind it to its 

doom. 
Yee ! crime and misery are in yonder earth, 
Falsehood, mistake and lust; 30 
But the eternal world 
Contains at once the evil and the cure. 
Some eminent in virtue shall start up, 

Even in perversest time; 
The truths of their pure lips, that never 

die, 
Shall bind the scorpion falsehood with a 
wreath 

Of ever-living flame, 
Until the monster sting itself to death. 

* How sweet a scene will earth become ! 
Of purest spirits a pure dwelling-place, 40 
Symphonious with the planetary spheres; 
When man, with changeless Nature coa- 
lescing, 
Will undertake regeneration's work. 
When its ungenial poles no longer point 
To the red and baleful sun 
That faintly twinkles there ! 

* Spirit, on yonder earth, 
Falsehood now triumphs; deadly power 
Has fixed its seal upon the lip of truth ! 

Madness and misery are there ! 50 

The happiest is most wretched ! Yet con- 
fide 
Until pure health-drops from the cup of 

. joy 

Fall like a dew of balm upon the world. 
Now, to the scene I show, in silence turn. 
And read the blood-stained charter of all 

woe. 
Which Nature soon with recreating hand 
Will blot in mercy from the book of earth. 
How bold the flight of passion's wandering 

wing. 
How swift the step of reason's firmer tread. 
How calm and sweet the victories of life. 
How terrorlesB the triumph of the grave ! 
How powerless were the mightiest mon- 
arch's arm, 62 



Vain his loud threat, and impotent his 

frown ! 
How ludicrous the priest's dogmatic roar I 
The weight of his exterminating curse 
How light ! and his affected charity, 
To suit the pressure of the changing times. 
What palpable deceit ! — but for thy aid, 
Religion ! but for thee, prolific fiend. 
Who peoplest earth with demons, hell with 

men, 70 

And heaven with slaves ! 

* Thou faintest all thou lookest upon ! — 

the stars. 
Which on thy cradle beamed so brightly 

sweet, 
Were gods to the distempered playfulness 
Of thy untutored infancy; the trees. 
The grass, the clouds, the mountains and the 

sea. 
All living things that walk, swim, creep or 

fly, 

W^ere gods; the sun had homage, and the 

moon 
Her worshipper. Then thou becamest, a 

boy, 79 

More daring in thy frenzies; every shape, 
Monstrous or vast, or beautifully wild. 
Which from sensation's relics fancy culls; 
The spirits of the air, the shuddering ghost, 
The genii of the elements, the powers 
That give a shape to Nature's varied 

works. 
Had life and place in the corrupt belief 
Of thy blind heart; yet still thy youthful 

hands 
Were pure of human blood. Then man- 
hood gave 
Its strength and ardor to thy frenzied 

brain ; 
Thine eager gaze scanned the stupendous 

scene, 9a 

Whose wonders mocked the knowledge of 

thy pride; 
Their everlasting and unchanging laws 
Reproached thine ignorance. Awhile thou 

stood'st 
Baffled and gloomy; then thou didst sum 

up 
The elements of all that thou didst know; 
The changing seasons, winter's leaflesg 

reign. 
The budding of the heaven-breathing trees, 
The eternal orbs that beautify the night. 
The sunrise, and the setting of the moon. 



20 



QUEEN MAB 



Earthquakes and wars, and poisons and 

disease, loo 

And all their causes, to an abstract point 
Converging thou didst bend, and called it 

God! 
The self-sufficing, the omnipotent, 
The merciful, and the avenging God ! 
Who, prototype of human misrule, sits 
High in heaven's realm, upon a golden 

throne, 
Even like an earthly king; and whose dread 

work, 
Hell, gapes forever for the unhappy slaves 
Of fate, whom he created in his sport 
To triumph in their torments when they 

fell! 
Earth heard the name; earth trembled as 

the smoke 
Of his revenge ascended up to heaven. 
Blotting the constellations; and the cries 
Of millions butchered in sweet confidence 
And unsuspecting peace, even when the 

bonds 
Of safety were confirmed by wordy oaths 
Sworn in his dreadful name, rung through 

the land; 
Whilst innocent babes writhed on thy stub- 
born spear, 
And thou didst laugh to hear the mother's 

shriek 
Of maniac gladness, as the sacred steel 120 
Felt cold in her torn entrails ! 

* Religion ! thou wert then in manhood's 

prime ; 
But age crept on; one God would not suf- 
fice 
For senile puerility; thou framedst 
A tale to suit thy dotage and to glut 
Thy misery-thirsting soul, that the mad 

fiend 
Thy wickedness had pictured might afford 
A plea for sating the unnatural thirst 
For murder, rapine, violence and crime, 129 
That still consumed thy being, even when 
Thou heard'st the step of fate; that flames 

might light 
Thy funeral scene; and the shrill horrent 

shrieks 
Of parents dying on the pile that burned 
To light their children to thy paths, the roar 
Of the encircling flames, the exulting cries 
Of thine apostles loud commingling there. 
Might sate thine hungry ear 
Even on the bed of death ! 



' But now contempt is mocking thy gray 

hairs; 
Thou art descending to the darksome 

grave, 14a 

Unhonored and unpitied but by those 
Whose pride is passing by like thine, and 

sheds, 
Like thine, a glare that fades before the 

sun 
Of truth, and shines but in the dreadful 

night 
That long has lowered above the ruined 

world. 

' Throughout these infinite orbs of mingling 

light 
Of which yon earth is one, is wide diffused 
A Spirit of activity and life, 
That knows no term, cessation or decay; 
That fades not when the lamp of earthly 
life, 15a 

Extinguished in the dampness of the grave, 
Awhile there slumbers, more than when 

the babe 
In the dim newness of its being feels 
The impulses of sublunary things. 
And all is wonder to unpractised sense; 
But, active, steadfast and eternal, still 
Guides the fierce whirlwind, in the tempest 

roars, 
Cheers in the day, breathes in the balmy 

groves. 
Strengthens in health, and poisons in dis- 
ease; 
And in the storm of change, that cease- 
lessly 160 
Bolls round the eternal universe and shakes 
Its undecaying battlement, presides. 
Apportioning with irresistible law 
The place each spring of its machine shall 

fill; 
So that, when waves on waves tumultuous 

heap 
Confusion to the clouds, and fiercely driven 
Heaven's lightnings scorch the uprooted 

ocean-fords — 
Whilst, to the eye of shipwrecked mariner, 
Lone sitting on the bare and shuddering 

rock. 
All seems unlinked contingency and 
chance — 170 

No atom of this tnrbulence fulfils 
A vague and unnecessitated task 
Or acts but as it must and ought to act. 
Jiven the minutest molecule of light^ 



QUEEN MAB 



21 



That in an April sunbeam's fleeting glow 
Fulfils its destined though invisible work, 
The universal Spirit guides; nor less 
When merciless ambition, or mad zeal, 
Has led two hosts of dupes to battle-field, 
That, blind, they there may dig each other's 

graves 180 

And call the sad work glory, does it rule 
All passions; not a thought, a will, an 

act. 
No working of the tyrant's moody mind, 
Nor one misgiving of the slaves who boast 
Their servitude to hide the shame they 

feel. 
Nor the events enchaining every will. 
That from the depths of unrecorded time 
Have drawn all-influencing virtue, pass 
Unrecognized or unforeseen by thee. 
Soul of the Universe ! eternal spring 190 
Of life and death, of happiness and woe. 
Of all that chequers the phantasmal scene 
That floats before our eyes in wavering 

light. 
Which gleams but on the darkness of our 

prison 
Whose chains and massy walls 
We feel but cannot see. 

* Spirit of Nature ! all-sufficing Power, 
Necessity ! thou mother of the world ! 
Unlike the God of human error, thou 
Requirest no prayers or praises; the ca- 
price 200 
Of man's weak will belongs no more to 

thee 
Than do the changeful passions of his 

breast 
To thy unvarying harmony; the slave, 
Whose horrible lusts spread misery o'er 

the world. 
And the good man, who lifts with virtuous 

pride 
His being in the sight of happiness 
That springs from his own works; the 

poison-tree, 
Beneath whose shade all life is withered 

up, 
And the fair oak, whose leafy dome affords 
A temple where the vows of happy love 210 
Are registered, are equal in thy sight; 
No love, no hate thou cherishest; revenge 
And favoritism, and worst desire of fame 
Thou knowest not; all that the wide world 

contains 
Are but thy passive instruments, and thou 



Regard'st them all with an impartial eye, 
Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot feel, 
Because thou hast not human sense, 
Because thou art not human mind. 

' Yes ! when the sweeping storm of 

time 220 

Has sung its death-dirge o'er the ruined 

fanes 
And broken altars of the almighty fiend, 
Whose name usurps thy honors, and the 

blood 
Through centuries clotted there has floated 

down 
The tainted flood of ages, shalt thou live 
Unchangeable! A shrine is raised to thee, 
Which nor the tempest breath of time, 
Nor the interminable flood 
Over earth's slight pageant rolling, 

Availeth to destroy, — 230 

The sensitive extension of the world; 

That wondrous and eternal fane. 
Where pain and pleasure, good and evil 

join, 
To do the will of strong necessity. 

And life, in multitudinous shapes, 
Still pressing forward where no term can be. 

Like hungry and unresting flame 
Curls round the eternal columns of its 
strength.' 

VII 
SPIRIT 

' I was an infant when ray mother went 

To see an atheist burned. She took me 
there. 

The dark-robed priests were met around 
the pile; 

The multitude was gazing silently; 

And as the culprit passed with dauntless 
mien. 

Tempered disdain in his unaltering eye. 

Mixed with a quiet smile, shone calmly 
forth ; 

The thirsty fire crept round his manly 
limbs; 

His resolute eyes were scorched to blind- 
ness soon; 

His death-pang rent my heart! the insen- 
sate mob la 

Uttered a cry of triumph, and I wept 

" Weep not, child! " cried my mother, "for 
that man 

Has said. There is no God." ' 



22 



QUEEN MAB 



FAIRY 

* There is no God ! 
Nature confirms tlie faith his death-groan 

sealed. 
Let heaven and earth, let man's revolving 

race, 
His ceaseless generations, tell their tale ; 
liCt every part depending on the chain 
That links it to the whole, point to the 

hand 
That grasps its term! Let every seed that 

falls 
In silent eloquence unfold its store 20 

Of argument; infinity within. 
Infinity without, belie creation; 
The exterminable spirit it contains 
Is Nature's only God; but human pride 
Is skilful to invent most serious names 
To hide its ignorance. 

' The name of God 
Has fenced about all crime with holiness, 
Himself the creature of his worshippers, 
AVhose names and attributes and passions 
change, 29 

Seeva, Buddh, Fob, Jehovah, God, or Lord, 
Even with the human dupes who build his 

shrines. 
Still serving o'er the war-polluted world 
For desolation's watchword; whether hosts 
Stain his death-blushing chariot-wheels, as 

on 
Triumphantly they roll, whilst Brahmins 

raise 
A sacred hymn to mingle with the groans; 
Or countless partners of his power divide 
His tyranny to weakness; or the smoke 
Of burning towns, the cries of female help- 
lessness, 39 
Unarmed old age, and youth, and infancy. 
Horribly massacred, ascend to heaven 
In honor of his name ; or, last and woriit, 
Earth groans beneath religion's iron age. 
And priests dare babble of a God of peace. 
Even whilst their hands are red with guilt- 
less blood. 
Murdering the while, uprooting every germ 
Of truth, exterminating, spoiling all, 
Making the earth a slaughter-house! 

* O Spirit ! through the sense 
By which thy inner nature was apprised 50 
Of outward shows, vague dreams have 

rolled. 
And varied reminiscences have waked 



Tablets that never fade; 
All things have been imprinted there, 
The stars, the sea, the earth, the sky, 
Even the unshapeliest lineaments 
Of wild and fleeting visions 

Have left a record there 

To testify of earth. 

' These are my empire, for to me is given 6a 
The wonders of the human world to keep, 
And fancy's thin creations to endow 
With manner, being and reality; 
Therefore a wondrous phantom from the 

dreams 
Of human error's dense and purblind faith 
I will evoke, to meet thy questioning. 
Ahasuerus, rise ! ' 

A strange and woe-worn wight 
Arose beside the battlement. 

And stood unmoving there. 70 
His inessential figure cast no shade 

Upon the golden floor; 
His port and mien bore mark of many 

years, 
And chronicles of untold ancientness 
Were legible within his beamless eye; 

Yet his cheek bore the mark of youth; 
Freshness and vigor knit his manly frame; 
The wisdom of old age was mingled there 
With youth's primeval dauntlessness; 
And inexpressible woe, 8<» 

Chastened by fearless resignation, gave 
An awful grace to his all-speaking brow. 

SPIRIT 

* Is there a God ? ' 

AHASUERUS 

' Is there a God! — ay, an almighty God, 
And vengeful as almighty! Once his voice 
Was heard on earth; earth shuddered at 

the sound; 
The fiery-visaged firmament expressed 
Abhorrence, and the grave of Nature 

yawned 
To swallow all the dauntless and the good 
That dared to hurl defiance at his throne, 
Girt as it was with power. None but 

slaves 91 

Survived, — cold-blooded slaves, who did 

the work 
Of tyrannous omnipotence; whose soulii 
No honest indignation ever urged 
To elevated daring, to one deed 



QUEEN MAB 



23 



Which gross and sensual self did not pol- 
lute. 
These slaves built temples for the omnipo- 
tent fiend, 
Gorgeous and vast; the costly altars smoked 
With human blood, and hideous paeans rung 
Through all the long-drawn aisles. A mur- 
derer heard 100 
His voice in Egypt, one whose gifts and arts 
Had raised him to his eminence in power, 
Accomplice of omnipotence in crime 
And confidant of the all-knowing one. 
These were Jehovah's words. 

' " From an eternity of idleness 

I, God, awoke ; in seven days' toil made 

earth 
From nothing; rested, and created man; 
I placed him in a paradise, and there 
Planted the tree of evil, so that he no 

Might eat and perish, and my soul procure 
Wherewith to sate its malice and to turn, 
Even like a heartless conqueror of the 

earth, 
All misery to my fame. The race of men. 
Chosen to my honor, with impunity 
May sate the lusts I planted in their heart. 
Here I command thee hence to lead them 

on, 
Until with hardened feet their conquering 

troops 
Wade on the promised soil through wo- 
man's blood. 
And make my name be dreaded through 

the land. 120 

Yet ever-burning flame and ceaseless woe 
Shall be the doom of their eternal souls. 
With every soul on this ungrateful earth, 
Virtuous or vicious, weak or strong, — 

even all 
Shall perish, to fulfil the blind revenge 
(Which you, to men, call justice) of their 

God." 

* The murderer's brow 
Quivered with horror. 

* ** God omnipotent. 
Is there no mercy ? must our punishment 
Be endless ? will long ages roll away, 130 
And see no term ? Oh ! wherefore hast 

thou made 
In mockery and wrath this evil earth ? 
Mercy becomes the powerful — be but just ! 
God ! repent and save ! " 



* " One way remains: 
I will beget a son and he shall bear 
The sins of all the world; he shall arise 
In an unnoticed corner of the earth. 
And there shall die upon a cross, and purge 
The universal crime; so that the few 
On whom my grace descends, those who are 

marked 14a 

As vessels to the honor of their God, 
May credit this strange sacrifice and save 
Their souls alive. Millions shall live and 

die. 
Who ne'er shall call upon their Saviour's 

name. 
But, unredeemed, go to the gaping grave, 
Thousands shall deem it an old woman's 

tale. 
Such as the nurses frighten babes withal; 
These in a gulf of anguish and of flame 
Shall curse their reprobation endlessly. 
Yet tenfold pangs shall force them to 



avow. 



150 



Even on their beds of torment where they 

howl. 
My honor and the justice of their doom. 
What then avail their virtuous deeds, their 

thoughts 
Of purity, with radiant genius bright 
Or lit with human reason's earthly ray ? 
Many are called, but few will I elect. 
Do thou my bidding, Moses ! " 

* Even the murderer's cheek 
Was blanched with horror, and his quiver 

ing lips 
Scarce faintly uttered — " O almighty one, 
I tremble and obey ! " 160 

* O Spirit ! centuries have set their seal 
On this heart of many wounds, and loaded 

brain. 
Since the Incarnate came ; humbly he came, 
Veiling his horrible Godhead in the shape 
Of man, scorned by the world, iiis name 

unheard 
Save by the rabble of his native town. 
Even as a parish demagogue. He led 
The crowd ; he taught them justice, truth 

and peace, 
In semblance ; but he lit within their souls 
The quenchless flames of zeal, and blessed 

the sword 170 

He brought on earth to satiate with the 

blood 
Of truth and freedom his malignant soul. 



24 



QUEEN MAB 



At lengrth his mortal frame was led to 

death. 
I stood beside him ; on the torturing cross 
No pain assailed his unterrestrial sense; 
And yet he groaned. Indignantly I summed 
The massacres and miseries which his name 
Had sanctioned in my country, and I cried, 
" Go ! go ! " in mockei-y. 
A smile of godlike malice reillumined i8o 
His fading lineaments. " I go," he cried, 
" But thou shalt wander o'er the unquiet 

earth 
Eternally." The dampness of the grave 
Bathed my imperishable front. I fell. 
And long lay tranced upon the charmed 

soil. 
When I awoke hell burned within my brain 
Which staggered on its seat; for all around 
The mouldering relics of my kindred lay, 
Even as the Almighty's ire arrested them. 
And in their various attitudes of death 190 
My murdered children's mute and eyeless 

skulls 
Glared ghastily upon me. 

But my soul, 
From sight and sense of the polluting woe 
Of tyranny, had long learned to prefer 
Hell's freedom to the servitude of heaven. 
Therefore I rose, and dauntlessly began 
My lonely and unending pilgrimage. 
Resolved to wage unweariable war 
With my almighty tyrant and to hurl 
Defiance at his impotence to harm 200 

Beyond the curse I bore. The very hand. 
That barred my passage to the peaceful 

grave. 
Has crushed the earth to misery, and given 
Its empire to the chosen of his slaves. 
These I have seen, even from the earliest 

dawn 
Of weak, unstable and precarious power. 
Then preaching peace, as now they practise 

war; 
So, when they turned but from the mas- 
sacre 
Of unoffending infidels to quench 
Their thirst for ruin in the very blood 210 
That flowed in their own veins, and pitiless 

zeal 
Froze every human feeling as the wife 
Sheathed in her husband's heart the sacred 

steel, 
Even whilst its hopes were dreaming of her 

love; 



And friends to friends, brothers to brothers 

stood 
Opposed in bloodiest battle-field, and war, 
Scarce satiable by fate's last death-draught, 

waged, 
Drunk from the wine-press of the Al- 
mighty's wrath; 
Whilst the red cross, in mockery of peace, 
Pointed to victory! When the fray was 
done, 220 

No remnant of the exterminated faith 
Svirvived to tell its ruin, but the flesh, 
With putrid smoke poisoning the atmo- 
sphere, 
That rotted on the half-extinguished pile. 

' Yes ! I have seen God's worshippers un- 
sheathe 

The sword of his revenge, when grace de- 
scended. 

Confirming all unnatural impulses. 

To sanctify their desolating deeds; 

And frantic priests waved the ill-omened 
cross 

O'er the unhappy earth ; then shone the 
sun 230 

On showers of gore from the upflashing 
steel 

Of safe assassination, and all crime 

Made stingless by the spirits of the Locd, 

And blood-red rainbows canopied the land. 

' Spirit! no year of my eventful being 
Has passed unstained by crime and misery. 
Which flows from God's own faith. I 've 

marked his slaves 
With tongues, whose lies are venomous, 

beguile 
The insensate mob, and, whilst one hand 

was red 239 

With murder, feign to stretch the other out 
For brotherhood and peace; and that they 

now 
Babble of love and mercy, whilst their deeds 
Are marked with all the narrowness and 

crime 
That freedom's young arm dare not yet 

chastise. 
Reason may claim our gratitude, who now, 
Establishing the imperishable throne 
Of truth and stubborn virtue, maketh vain 
The unprevailing malice of my foe, 
Whose bootless rage heaps torments for the 

brave. 
Adds impotent eternities to pain, 250 



QUEEN MAB 



25 



Whilst keenest disappointment racks his 

breast 
To see the smiles of peace around them 

play, 
To frustrate or to sanctify their doom. 

* Thus have I stood, — through a wild waste 

of years 
Struggling with whirlwinds of mad agony, 
Yet peaceful, and serene, and self-en- 
shrined, 
Mocking my powerless tyrant's horrible 

curse 
With stubborn and unalterable will, 
Even as a giant oak, which heaven's fierce 

flame 
Had scathed in the wilderness, to stand 260 
A monument of fadeless ruin there ; 
Yet peacefully and movelessly it braves 
The midnight conflict of the wintry storm. 
As in the sunlight's calm it spreads 
Its worn and withered arms on high 
To meet the quiet of a summer's noon.' 

The Fairy waved her wand; 
Ahasuerus fled 

Fast as the shapes of mingled shade and 
mist, 269 

That lurk in the glens of a twilight grove, 
Flee from the morning beam; — 
The matter of which dreams are made 
Not more endowed with actual life 
Than this phantasmal portraiture 
Of wandering human thought. 

VIII 
THE FAIRY 

* The present and the past thou hast beheld. 
It was a desolate sight. Now, Spirit, learn, 

The secrets of the future. — Time! 
Unfold the brooding pinion of thy gloom. 
Render thou up thy half-devoured babes. 
And from the cradles of eternity. 
Where millions lie lulled to their portioned 

sleep 
By the deep murmuring stream of passing 

things, 
Tear thou that gloomy shroud. — Spirit, 

behold 
Thy glorious destiny!' 10 

Joy to the Spirit came. 
Through the wide rent in Time's eternal 
veil. 



Hope was seen beaming through the mists 
of fear; 
Earth was no longer bell; 
Love, freedom, health had given 
Their ripeness to the manhood of its prime, 

And all its pulses beat 
Symphonious to the planetary spheres; 

Then dulcet music swelled ig 

Concordant with the life-strings of the soul; 
It throbbed in sweet and languid beatings 

there. 
Catching new life from transitory death; 
Like the vague sighings of a wind at even 
That wakes the wavelets of the slumbering 

sea 
And dies on the creation of its breath, 
And sinks and rises, falls and swells by 
fits. 
Was the pure stream of feeling 
That sprung from these sweet notes. 
And o'er the Spirit's human sympsithies 29 
With mild and gentle motion calmly flowed. 

Joy to the Spirit came, — 

Such joy as when a lover sees 

The chosen of his soul in happiness 

And witnesses her peace 
Whose woe to him were bitterer than death; 

Sees her nnfaded cheek 
Glow mantling in first luxury of health, 

Thrills with her lovely eyes. 
Which like two stars amid the heaving 
main 

Sparkle through liquid bliss. 40 

Then in her triumph spoke the Fairy Queen 

* I will not call the ghost of ages gone 

To unfold the frightful secrets of its 

lore; 
The present now is past. 
And those events that desolate the earth 
Have faded from the memory of Time, 
Who dares not give reality to that 
Whose being I annul. To me is given 
The wonders of the human world to keep, 
Space, matter, time and mind. Futurity 50 
Exposes now its treasure; let the sight 
Renew and strengthen all thy failing hope. 
O human Spirit! spur thee to the goal 
Where virtue fixes universal peace, 
And, 'midst the ebb and flow of human 

things. 
Show somewhat stable, somewhat certain 

still, 
A light-house o'er the wild of dreary waves. 



26 



QUEEN MAB 



* The habitable earth is full of bliss ; 
Those wastes of frozen billows that were 

hurled 
By everlasting snow-storms round the 
poles, 60 

Where matter dared not vegetate or live, 
But ceaseless frost round the vast solitude 
Bound its broad zone of stillness, are un- 
loosed; 
And fragrant zephyrs there from spicy 

isles 
Ruffle the placid ocean-deep, that rolls 
Its broad, bright surges to the sloping sand. 
Whose roar is wakened into echoings sweet 
To murmur through the heaven-breathing 

groves 
And melodize with man's blest nature 
there. 

• Those deserts of immeasurable sand, 70 
Whose age-collected fervors scarce allowed 
A bird to live, a blade of grass to spring. 
Where the shrill chirp of the green lizard's 

love 
Broke on the sultry silentness alone, 
Now teem with countless rills and shady 

woods, 
Cornfields and pastures and white cottages ; 
And w^here the startled wilderness beheld 
A savage conqueror stained in kindr\ad 

blood, 
A tigress sating with the flesh of lambs 
The unnatural famine of her toothless 
cubs, 80 

Whilst shouts and bowlings through the 

desert rang, — 
Sloping and smooth the daisy-spangled 

lawn, 
Offering sweet incense to the sunrise, smiles 
To see a babe before his mother's door, 
Sharing his morning's meal 
With the green and golden basilisk 
That comes to lick his feet. 

' Those trackless deeps, where many a weary 
sail 

Has seen above the illimitable plain 

Morning on night and night on morning 
rise, 90 

Whilst still no land to greet the wanderer 
spread 

its shadowy mountains on the sun-bright 
sea. 

Where the loud roarings of the tempest- 
waves 



So long have mingled with the gusty wind 
In melancholy loneliness, and swept 
The desert of those ocean solitudes 
But vocal to the sea-bird's harrowing shriek, 
The bellowing monster, and the rushing 

storm ; 
Now to the sweet and many - mingling 

sounds 
Of kindliest human impulses respond. 100 
Those lonely realms bright garden-isles 

begem, 
With lightsome clouds and shining seas 

between. 
And fertile valleys, resonant with bliss. 
Whilst green woods overcanopy the wave, 
Which like a toil-worn laborer leaps to 

shore 
To meet the kisses of the flowrets there. 

' All things are recreated, and the flame 
Of consentaneous love inspires all life. 
The fertile bosom of the earth gives suck 
To myriads, who still grow beneath her 

care, no 

Rewarding her with their pure perfectness; 
The balmy breathings of the wind inhale 
Her virtues and diffuse them all abroad; 
Health floats amid the gentle atmosphere, 
Glows in the fruits and mantles on the 

stream ; 
No storms deform the beaming brow of 

heaven. 
Nor scatter in the freshness of its pride 
The foliage of the ever- verdant trees; 
But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever fair. 
And autumn proudly bears her matron 

grace, 120 

Kindling a flush on the fair cheek of spring, 
Whose virgin bloom beneath the ruddy 

fruit 
Reflects its tint and blushes into love. 

' The lion now forgets to thirst for blood ; 

There might you see him sporting in the 
sun 

Beside the dreadless kid; his claws are 
sheathed. 

His teeth are harmless, custom's force has 
made 

His nature as the nature of a lamb. 

Like passion's fruit, the nightshade's tempt- 
ing bane 

Poisons no more the pleasure it be- 
stows ; i3« 

All bitterness is past; the cup of joy 



QUEEN MAB 



27 



Unraingled mantles to the goblet's brim 
Aud courts the thirsty lips it fled before. 

But chief, ambiguous man, he that can 

know 
More misery, and dream more joy than 

all; 
Whose keen sensations thrill within his 

breast 
To mingle with a loftier instinct there, 
Lending their power to pleasure and to 

pain, 
Yet raising, sharpening, and refining each; 
Who stands amid the ever-varying world. 
The burden or the glory of the earth; 141 
He chief perceives the change; his being 

notes 
The gradual renovation and defines 
Each movement of its progress on his 

mind. 

* Man, where the gloom of the long polar 

night 
Lowers o'er the snow -clad rocks and 

frozen soil, 
Where scarce the hardiest herb that braves 

the frost 
Basks in the moonlight's ineffectual glow, 
Shrank with the plants, and darkened with 

the night; 
His chilled and narrow energies, his 

heart 150 

Insensible to courage, truth or love, 
His stunted stature and imbecile frame. 
Marked him for some abortion of the earth, 
Fit compeer of the bears that roamed 

around. 
Whose habits and enjoyments were his 

own; 
His life a feverish dream of stagnant woe, 
Whose meagre wants, but scantily ful- 
filled. 
Apprised him ever of the joyless length 
Which his short being's wretchedness had 

reached ; 
His death a pang which famine, cold and 

toil 160 

Long on the mind, whilst yet the vital 

spark 
Clung to the body stubbornly, had brought: 
All was inflicted here that earth's revenge 
Could wreak on the infringers of her law; 
One curse alone was spared — the name of 

God. 



* Nor, where the trooics bound the realms 

of day 
With a broad belt of mingling cloud and 

flame. 
Where blue mists through the unmoving 

atmosphere 
Scattered the seeds of pestilence and fed 
Unnatural vegetation, where the land 170 
Teemed with all earthquake, tempest and 

disease, 
Was man a nobler being; slavery 
Had crushed him to his country's blood- 
stained dust; 
Or he was bartered for the fame of power, 
Which, all internal impulses destroying, 
Makes human will an article of trade; 
Or he was changed with Christians for their 

gold 
And dragged to distant isles, where to the 

sound 
Of the flesh-mangling scourge he does the 

work 
Of all-polluting luxury and wealth, 180 

Which doubly visits on the tyrants' heads 
The long-protracted fulness of their woe; 
Or he was led to legal butchery. 
To turn to worms beneath that burning sun 
Where kings first leagued against the rights 

of men 
And priests first traded with the name of 

God. 

* Even where the milder zone afforded man 
A seeming shelter, yet contagion there. 
Blighting his being with unnumbered ills. 
Spread like a quenchless fire ; nor truth till 

late I go 

Availed to arrest its progress or create 
That peace which first in bloodless victory 

waved 
Her snowy standard o'er this favored clime; 
There man was long the train-bearer of 

sl^-ves, 
The mimic of surrounding misery, 
The jackal of ambition's lion-rage. 
The bloodhound of religion's hungry zeal. 

* Here now the human being stands adorn- 

ing 

This loveliest earth with taintless body and 
mind ; 

Blest from his birth with all bland im- 
pulses, ioa 

Which gently in his noble bosom wake 



28 



QUEEN MAB 



All kindly passions and all pure desires. 
Him, still from hope to hope the bliss pur- 
suing 
Which from the exhaustless store of human 



weal 
Draws on the virtuous mind, the thoughts 

that rise 
In time-destroying infiniteness gift 
With self-enshrined eternity, that mocks 
The unprevailing hoariness of age; 
And man, once fleeting o'er the transient 

scene 
Swift as an unremembered vision, stands 210 
Immortal upon earth ; no longer now 
He slays the lamb that looks him in the 

face. 
And horribly devours his mangled flesh. 
Which, still avenging Nature's broken 

law. 
Kindled all putrid humors in his frame, 
All evil passions and all vain belief. 
Hatred, despair and loathing in his mind, 
The germs of misery, death, disease and 

crime. 
No longer now the winged habitants. 
That in the woods their sweet lives sing 

away, 220 

Flee from the form of man ; but gather 

round. 
And prune their sunny feathers on the 

hands 
Which little children stretch in friendly 

sport 
Towards these dreadless partners of their 

play. 
All things are void of terror; man has 

lost 
His terrible prerogative, and stands 
An equal amidst equals; happiness 
And science dawn, though late, upon the 

earth; 
Peace cheers the mind, health renovates 

the frame; 229 

Disease and pleasure cease to mingle here, 
Reason and passion cease to combat there; 
Whilst each unfettered o'er the earth ex- 
tend 
Their all-subduing energies, and wield 
The sceptre of a vast dominion there; 
Whilst every shape and mode of matter 

lends 
Its force to the omnipotence of mind. 
Which from its dark mine drags the gem 

of truth 
To decorate its paradise of peace.* 



IX 

* O happy Earth, reality of Heaven! 

To which those restless souls that cease" 

lessly 
Throng through the human universe, aspireJ 
Thou consummation of all mortal hope! 
Thou glorious prize of blindly working will, 
Whose rays, dijjfused throughout all space 

and time. 
Verge to one point and blend forever there! 
Of purest spirits thou pure dwelling-place 
Where care and sorrow, impotence and 

crime. 
Languor, disease and ignorance dare not 

come! 10 

O happy Earth, reality of Heaven! 

'Genius has seen thee in her passionate 

dreams; 
And dim forebodings of thy loveliness. 
Haunting the human heart, have there en- 
twined 
Those rooted hopes of some sweet place of 

bliss, 
Where friends and lovers meet to part no 

more. 
Thou art the end of all desire and will. 
The product of all action; and the souls, 
That by the paths of an aspiring change ig 
Have reached thy haven of perpetual peace, 
There rest from the eternity of toil 
That framed the fabric of thy perfectness, 

' Even Time, the conqueror, fled thee in his 

fear; 
That hoary giant, who in lonely pride 
So long had ruled the world that nations 

fell 
Beneath his silent footstep. Pyramids, 
That for millenniums had withstood the tide 
Of human things, his storm-breath drove in 

sand 
Across that desert where their stones sur- 
vived 
The name of him whose pride had heaped 

them there. 3a 

Yon monarch, in his solitary pomp. 
Was but the mushroom of a summer day, 
That his light-wiugM footstep pressed to 

dust ; 
Time was the king of earth ; all things gave 

way 
Before him but the fixed and virtuous will, 
The sacred sympathies of soul and sense, 
That mocked his fury and prepared his fall 



QUEEN MAB 



29 



'Yet slow and gradual dawned the morn of 
love; 

Long lay the clouds of darkness o'er the 
scene, 

Till from its native heaven they rolled 
away : 40 

First, crime triumphant o'er all hope ca- 
reered 

Unblushing, undisguising, bold and strong. 

Whilst falsehood, tricked in virtue's attri- 
butes, 

Long sanctified all deeds of vice and woe, 

Till, done by her own venomous sting to 
death. 

She left the moral world without a law. 

No longer fettering passion's fearless wing, 

Nor searing reason with the brand of God. 

Then steadily the happy ferment worked; 

Reason was free; and wild though passion 
went 50 

Through tangled glens and wood-embos- 
omed meads. 

Gathering a garland of the strangest flow- 
ers. 

Yet, like the bee returning to her queen. 

She bound the sweetest on her sister's brow, 

Who meek and sober kissed the sportive 
child. 

No longer trembling at the broken rod. 

' Mild was the slow necessity of death. 
The tranquil spirit failed beneath its grasp. 
Without a groan, almost without a fear. 
Calm as a voyager to some distant land, 60 
And full of wonder, full of hope as he. 
The deadly germs of languor and disease 
Died in the human frame, and purity 
Blessed with all gifts her earthly worship- 
pers. 
How vigorous then the athletic form of 



age 



How clear its open and unwrinkled brow ! 
Where neither avarice, cunning, pride or 

care 
Had stamped the seal of gray deformity 
On all the mingling lineaments of time. 
How lovely the intrepid front of youth, 70 
Which meek-eyed courage decked with 

freshest grace; 
Courage of soul, that dreaded not a name, 
And elevated will, tl^at journeyed on 
Through life's phantasmal scene in fear- 
lessness, 
With virtue, love and pleasure, hand in 
hand ! 



' Then, that sweet bondage which is free^ 

dom's self, 
And rivets with sensation's softest tie 
The kindred sympathies of human souls, 
Needed no fetters of tyrannic law. 
Those delicate and timid impulses 8a 

In Nature's primal modesty arose, 
And with undoubting confidence disclosed 
The growing longings of its dawning love, 
Unchecked by dull and selfish chastity, 
That virtue of the cheaply virtuous, 
W^ho pride themselves in senselessness and 

frost. 
No longer prostitution's venomed bane 
Poisoned the springs of happiness and 

life; 
Woman and man, in confidence and love, 
Equal and free and pure together trod 90 
The mountain - paths of virtue, which no 

more 
Were stained with blood from many a pil' 

grim's feet. 

' Then, where, through distant ages, long 

in pride 
The palace of the monarch - slave had 

mocked 
Famine's faint groan and penury's silent 

tear, 
A heap of crumbling ruins stood, and 

thre w 
Year after year their stones upon the field, 
Wakening a lonely echo; and the leaves 
Of the old thorn, that on the topmost tower 
Usurped the royal ensign's grandeur, shook 
In the stern storm that swayed the topmost 
tower, loi 

And whispered strange tales in the whirl- 
wind's ear. 

* Low through the lone cathedral's roofless 

aisles 
The melancholy winds a death-dirge sung. 
It were a sight of awfulness to see 
The works of faith and slavery, so vast. 
So sumptuous, yet so perishing withal, 
Even as the corpse that rests beneath its 

wall ! 
A thousand mourners deck the pomp of 

death 109 

To-day, the breathing marble glows above 
To decorate its memory, and tongues 
Are busy of its life; to-morrow, worms 
In silence and in darkness seize then 

prey. 



30 



QUEEN MAB 



* Within the massy prison's mouldering 

courts, 
Fearless and free the ruddy children played, 
Weaving gay chaplets for their innocent 

brows 
With the green ivy and the red wall-flower 
That mock the dungeon's unavailing gloom; 
The ponderous chains and gratings of 

strong iron 119 

There rusted amid heaps of broken stone 
That mingled slowly with their native 

earth ; 
There the broad beam of day, which feebly 

once 
Lighted the cheek of lean captivity 
With a pale and sickly glare, then freely 

shone 
On the pure smiles of infant playfulness; 
No more the shuddering voice of hoarse 

despair 
Pealed through the echoing vaults, but 

soothing notes 
Of ivy-fingered winds and gladsome birds 
And merriment were resonant around. 129 

' These ruins soon left not a wreck behind ; 

Their elements, wide-scattered o'er the 
globe, 

To happier shapes were moulded, and be- 
came 

Ministrant to all blissful impulses; 

Thus human things were perfected, and 
earth, 

Even as a child beneath its mother's love. 

Was strengthened in all excellence, and 
grew 

Fairer and nobler with each passing year. 

' Now Time his dusky pennons o'er the 
scene 

Closes in steadfast darkness, and the past 

Fades from our charmed sight. My task 
is done; 140 

Thy lore is learned. Earth's wonders are 
thine own 

With all the fear and all the hope they 
bring. 

My spells are passed ; the present now re- 
curs. 

Ah me ! a pathless wilderness remains 

Yet unsubdued by man's reclaiming hand. 

* Yet, human Spirit ! bravely hold thy 

course ; 
Let virtue teach thee firmly to pursue 



The gradual paths of an aspiring change; 
For birth and life and death, and that 

strange state 149 

Before the naked soul has found its home, 
All tend to perfect happiness, and urge 
The restless wheels of being on their 

way. 
Whose flashing spokes, instinct with infi- 
nite life. 
Bicker and burn to gain their destined 

goal; 
For birth but wakes the spirit to the sense 
Of outward shows, whose unexperienced 

shape 
New modes of passion to its frame may 

lend; 
Life is its state of action, and the store 
Of all events is aggregated there 
That variegate the eternal universe; 160 
Death is a gate of dreariness and gloom. 
That leads to azure isles and beaming 

skies 
And happy regions of eternal hope. 
Therefore, O Spirit ! fearlessly bear on. 
Though storms may break the primrose on 

its stalk, 
Though frosts may blight the freshness of 

its bloom. 
Yet spring's awakening breath will woo 

the earth 
To feed with kindliest dews its favorite 

flower. 
That blooms in mossy bank and darksome 

glens, 
Lighting the greenwood with its sunny 

smile. 170 

* Fear not then. Spirit, death's disrobing 

hand. 
So welcome when the tyrant is awake, 
So welcome when the bigot's hell-torch 

burns; 
'T is but the voyage of a darksome hour, 
The transient gulf-dream of a startling 

sleep. 
Death is no foe to virtue; earth has seen 
Love's brightest roses on the scaffold bloom, 
Mingling with freedom's fadeless laurels 

there. 
And presaging the truth of visioned bliss. 
Are there not hopes within thee, which this 

scene 180 

Of linked and gradual being has confirmed ? 
Whose stingings bade thy heart look further 

still. 



ALASTOR 



31 



When, to the moonlight walk by Henry led, 
Sweetly and sadly thou didst talk of death ? 
And wilt thou rudely tear them from thy 

breast, 
Listening supinely to a bigot's creed, 
Or tamely crouching to the tyrant's rod. 
Whose iron thongs are red with human 

gore ? 
Never : but bravely bearing on, thy will 
Is destined an eternal war to wage 190 

With tyranny and falsehood, and uproot 
The germs of misery from the human heart. 
Thine is the hand whose piety would soothe 
The thorny pillow of unhappy crime. 
Whose impotence an easy pardon gains. 
Watching its wanderings as a friend's dis- 
ease ; 
Thine is the brow whose mildness would 

defy 
Its fiercest rage, and brave its sternest 

will, 
When fenced by power and master of the 

world. 
Thou art sincere and good ; of resolute 
mind, 200 

Free from heart-withering custom's cold 

control, 
Of passion lofty, pure and unsubdued. 
Earth's pride and meanness could not van- 
quish thee. 
And therefore art thou worthy of the boon 
Which thou hast now received ; virtue shall 

keep 
Thy footsteps in the path that thou hast 

trod. 
And many days of beaming hope shall bless 
Thy spotless life of sweet and sacred love. 
Go, happy one, and give that bosom joy. 
Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch 210 
Light, life and rapture from thy smile ! ' 



ap- 



The Fairy waves her wand of charm. 
Speechless with bliss the Spirit mounts the 
car, 
That rolled beside the battlement, 
Bending her beamy eyes in thankfulness. 
Again the enchanted steeds were yoked ; 
Again the burning wheels inflame 
The steep descent of heaven's mitrodden 
way. 
Fast and far the chariot flew; 
The vast and fiery globes that rolled 330 
Around the Fairy's palace-gate 
Lessened by slow degrees, and soon 

peared 

Such tiny twinklers as the planet orbs 
That there attendant on the solar power 
With borrowed light pursued their nar- 
rower way. 

Earth floated then below; 
The chariot paused a moment there; 
The Spirit then descended; 
The restless coursers pawed the ungenial 

soil. 
Snuffed the gross air, and then, their errand 
done, 230 

Unfurled their pinions to the winds of 
heaven. 

The Body and the Soul united then. 
A gentle start convulsed lanthe's frame; 
Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed; 
Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs re- 
mained. 
She looked around in wonder, and beheld 
Henry, who kneeled in silence by her couch, 
Watching her sleep with looks of speech- 
less love, 
And the bright beaming stars 
That through the casement shone. 240 



ALASTOR 

OR 

THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE 

Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, 
quaerebam quid amarem, amans amare. 

Confess. St. August. 



Alastor was published nearly three years 
after the issue of Queen Mab, in 1816, in a thin 
volume with a few other poems. It is strongly 
opposed to the earlier poem, and beg-ins that 
geries of ideal portraits, — in the main, incar- 



nations of Shelley's own aspiring" and raelan- 
choly spirit, — which contain his personal charm 
and shadow forth his own history of isolation 
in the world ; they are interpretations of the 
hero rather than pronunciamentos of the cause. 



32 



ALASTOR 



and are free from the entanglements of politi- 
cal and social reform and religious strife. The 
poetical antecedents of Alastor are Wordsworth 
and Coleridge. The deepening of the poet's self- 
consciousness is evident in every line, and the 
growth of his genius in grace and strength, in 
the element of expression, is so marked as to give 
a different cadence to his verse. He composed 
the poem in the autumn of 1815, when he was 
twentj^-three years old and after the earlier 
misfortunes of his life had befallen him. Mrs. 
Shelley's account of the poem is the best, and 
nothing has since been added to it : 

' Alastor is written in a very different tone 
from Queen Mab. In the latter, Shelley poured 
out all the cherished speculations of his youth 
— all the irrepressible emotions of sympathy, 
censure, and hope, to which the present suffer- 
ing, and what he considers the proper destiny 
of his fellow - creatures, gave birth. Alastor, 
on the contrary, contains an individual interest 
only. A very few years, with their attendant 
events, had checked the ardor of Shelley's 
hopes, though he still thought them well- 
grounded, and that to advance their fulfilment 
was the noblest task man could achieve. 

' This is neither the time nor place to speak 
of the misfortunes that checkered his life. It 
will be sufficient to say, that in all he did, he 
at the time of doing it believed himself justi- 
fied to his own conscience ; while the various 
ills of poverty and loss of friends brought home 
to him the sad realities of life. Physical suf- 
fering had also considerable influence in caus- 
ing him to turn his eyes inward ; inclining him 
rather to brood over the thoughts and emotions 
of his own soul, than to glance abroad, and to 
make, as in Queen Mab, the whole universe the 
object and subject of his song. In the spring 
of 1815, an eminent physician pronounced that 
he was dying rapidly of a consumption ; ab- 
scesses were formed on his lungs, and he suf- 
fered acute spasms. Suddenly a complete 
change took place ; and though through life he 
was a martyr to pain and debility, every symp- 
tom of pulmonary disease vanished. His nerves, 
which nature had formed sensitive to an unex- 
ampled degree, were rendered still more suscep- 
tible by the state of his health. 

' As soon as the peace of 1814 had opened 
the Continent, he went abroad. He visited 
some of the more magnificent scenes of Swit- 
zerland, and returned to England from Lucerne 
by the Reuss and the Rhine. This river-navi- 
gation enchanted him. In his favorite poem 
of Thalaba his imagination had been excited 
by a description of such a voyage. In the 
summer of 1815, after a tour along the south- 
ern coast of Devonshire and a visit to Clifton, 
he rented a house on Bishopgate Heath, on the 
borders of Windsor Forest, where he enjoyed 



several months of comparative health and tran- 
quil happiness. The later summer months 
were warm and dry. Accompanied by a few 
friends, he visited the source of the Thames, 
making a voyage in a wherry from Windsor to 
Crichlade. His beautiful stanzas in the church- 
yard of Lechlade were written on that occa- 
sion. Alastor was composed on his return. He 
spent his days under the oak-shades of Wind- 
sor Great Park ; and the magnificent woodland 
was a fitting study to inspire the various de- 
scriptions of forest scenery we find in the 
poem. 

' None of Shelley's poems is more character- 
istic than this. The solemn spirit that reigns 
throughout, the worship of the majesty of 
nature, the broodings of a poet's heart in soli- 
tude — the mingling of the exulting joy which 
the various aspect of the visible universe in- 
spires, with the sad and struggling pangs which 
human passion imparts, give a touching interest 
to the whole. The death which he had often 
contemplated during the last months as certain 
and near, he here represented in such colors as 
had, in his lonely musings, soothed his soul to 
peace. The versification sustains the solemn 
spirit which breathes throughout : it is pecu- 
liarly melodious. The poem ought rather to 
be considered didactic than narrative : it was 
the outpouring of his own emotions, embodied 
in the purest form he could conceive, painted 
in the ideal hues which his brilliant imagina- 
tion inspired, and softened by the recent antici- 
pation of death.' 

Peacock explains the title : ' At this time 
Shelley wrote his Alastor. He was at a loss 
for a title, and I proposed that which he 
adopted : Alastor ; or, the Spirit of Solitude. 
The Greek word, ''Axdarwp, is an evil genius, 
KaKodaificov, though the sense of the two words 
is somewhat different, as in the Pavels 'AAaCTtw/j 
f] KuKos Saljucov TTodev of ^schylus. The poem 
treated the spirit of solitude as a spirit of evil. 
I mention the true meaning of the word because 
many have supposed Alastor to be the name of 
the hero of the poem.' 

In his Preface Shelley thus describes the main 
character, and draws its moral: 

' The poem entitled Alastor may be con- 
sidered as allegorical of one of the most inter- 
esting situations of the human mind. It re- 
presents a youth of uncorrupted feelings and 
adventurous genius led forth by an imagination 
inflamed and purified through familiarity with 
all that is excellent and majestic to the con- 
templation of the universe. He drinks deep 
of the fountains of knowledge and is still in- 
satiate. The magnificence and beauty of the 
external world sinks profoundly into the frame 
of his conceptions and affords to their modifi- 
cations a variety not to be exhausted. So long 



ALASTOR 



33 



as it is possible for his desires to point towards 
objects thus infinite and unmeasured, he is 
joyous and tranquil and self-possessed. But 
the period arrives when these objects cease 
to suffice. His mind is at length suddenly 
awakened and thirsts for intercourse with an 
intellig'ence similar to itself. He imag-es to 
himself the Being whom he loves. Conversant 
with speculations of the sublimest and most 
perfect natures, the vision in which he em- 
bodies his own imaginations unites all of won- 
derful or wise or beautiful, which the poet, 
the philosopher or the lover could depicture. 
The intellectual faculties, the imagination, 
the functions of sense have their respective re- 
quisitions on the sympathy of corresponding' 
powers in other human beings. The Poet is 
represented as uniting these requisitions and 
attaching them to a single image. He seeks 
in vain for a prototype of his conception. 
Blasted by his disappointment, he descends to 
an untimely grave. 

' The picture is not barren of instruction to 
actual men. The Poet's self-centred seclusion 
was avenged by the furies of an irresistible 
passion pursuing him to speedy ruin. But that 
Power, which strikes the luminaries of the 
world with sudden darkness and extinction by 
awakening them to too exqiiisite a perception 
of its influences, dooms to a slow and poisonous 
decay those meaner spirits that dare to abjure 



its dominion. Their destiny is more abject 
and inglorious as their delinquency is more 
contemptible and pernicious. They who, de- 
luded by no generous error, instigated by no 
sacred thirst of doubtful knowledge, duped by 
no illustrious superstition, loving nothing on 
this earth, and cherishing no hopes beyond, 
yet keep aloof from sympathies with their kind, 
rejoicing neither in human joy nor mourning 
with human grief ; these, and such as they, 
have their apportioned curse. They languish, 
because none feel with them their common 
nature. They are morally dead. They are 
neither friends, nor lovers, nor fathers, nor 
citizens of the world, nor benefactors of their 
country. Among those who attempt to exist 
without human sympathy, the pure and tender- 
hearted perish through the intensity and pas- 
sion of their search after its communities, when 
the vacancy of their spirit suddenly makes 
itself felt. All else, selfish, blind and torpid, 
are those unforeseeing multitudes who con- 
stitute, together with their own, the lasting 
misery and loneliness of the world. Those who 
love not their fellow-beings live unfruitful 
lives and prepare for their old age a miserable 
grave. 

' The good die first. 
And those whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
Burn to the socket ! 

' December 14, 1815.' 



Earth, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood! 
If our great Mother has imbued my soul 
With aught of natural piety to feel 
Your love, and recompense the boon with 

mine; 
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even. 
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers, 
And solemn midnight's tingling silent- 

ness; 
If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood. 
And Winter robing with pure snow and 

crowns 
Of starry ice the gray grass and bare 
boughs ; lo 

If Spring's voluptuous pantings when she 

breathes 
Her first sweet kisses, — have been dear to 

me; 
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast 
I consciously have injured, but still loved 
And cherished these my kindred ; then for- 
give 
This boast, beloved brethren, and with- 
draw 
No portion of your wonted favor now? 



Mother of this unfathomable world! 
Favor my solemn song, for I have loved ig 
Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched 
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps. 
And my heart ever gazes on the depth 
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my 

bed 
In charnels and on coffins, where black 

death 
Keeps record of the trophies won from 

thee, 
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings 
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone 

ghost. 
Thy messenger, to render up the tale 
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours. 
When night makes a weird sound of its 

own stillness, 30 

Like an inspired and desperate alchemist 
Staking his very life on some dark hope. 
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks 
With my most innocent love, until strange 

tears, 
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made 
Such magic as compels the charmed night 



34 



ALASTOR 



To render up thy charge; and, though 

ne'er yet 
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary, 
Enough from incommunicable dream, 
And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday 

thought, 40 

Has shone within me, that serenely now 
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre 
Suspended in the solitary dome 
Of some mysterious and deserted fane, 
I wait thy breath. Great Parent, that my 

strain 
May modulate with murmurs of the air. 
And motions of the forests and the sea. 
And voice of living beings, and woven 

hymns 
Of night and day, and the deep heart of 

man. 49 

There was a Poet whose untimely tomb 

No human hands with pious reverence 
reared. 

But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds 

Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyra- 
mid 

Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilder- 
ness : 

A lovely youth, — no mourning maiden 
decked 

With weeping flowers, or votive cypress 
wreath, 

The lone couch of his everlasting sleep : 

Gentle, and brave, and generous, — no lorn 
bard 

Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious 
sigh : 

He lived, he died, he sung in solitude. 60 

Strangers have wept to hear his passionate 
notes. 

And virgins, as unknown he passed, have 
pined 

And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes. 

The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to 
burn. 

And Silence, too enamoured of that voice. 

Locks its mute music in her rugged cell. 

By solemn vision and bright silver dream 
His infancy was nurtured. Every sight 
And sound from the vast earth and ambient 



air 



70 



Sent to his heart its choicest impulses 
The fountains of divine philosophy 
Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of great, 
Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past 



In truth or fable consecrates, he felt 

And knew. When early youth had passed, 

he left 
His cold fireside and alienated home 
To seek strange truths in undiscovered 

lands. 
Many a wide waste and tangled wilder- 
ness 
Has lured his fearless steps; and he has 

bought 
With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage 
men, 80 

His rest and food. Nature's most secret 

steps 
He like her shadow has pursued, where'er 
The red volcano overcanopies 
Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice 
With burning smoke, or where bitumen 

lakes 
On black bare pointed islets ever beat 
With sluggish surge, or where the secret 

caves. 
Rugged and dark, winding among the 

springs 
Of fire and poison, inaccessible 
To avarice or pride, their starry domes 90 
Of diamond and of gold expand above 
Numberless and immeasurable halls, 
Frequent with crystal column, and clear 

shrines 
Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chryso- 
lite. 
Nor had that scene of ampler majesty 
Than gems or gold, the varying roof of 

heaven 
And the green earth, lost in his heart its 

claims 
To love and wonder; he would linger long 
In lonesome vales, making the wild his 

home, 
Until the doves and squirrels would par- 
take 100 
From his innocuous hand his bloodless food. 
Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks. 
And the wild antelope, that starts when- 
e'er 
The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend 
Her timid steps, to gaze upon a form 
More graceful than her own. 

His wandering step, 
Obedient to high thoughts, has visited 
The awful ruins of the days of old ; 
Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the 
wastft X09 



ALASTOR 



35 



Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers 
Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids, 
Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of 

strange, 
Sculptured on alabaster obelisk 
Or jasper tomb or mutilated sphinX, 
Dark ^Ethiopia in her desert hills 
Conceals. Among the ruined temples 

there, 
Stupendous columns, and wild images 
Of more than man, where marble daemons 

watch 
The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead 

men 
Hang their mute thoughts on the mute 

walls around, 120 

He lingered, poring on memorials 
Of the world's youth: through the long 

burning day 
Gazed on those speechless shapes; nor, 

when the moon 
Filled the mysterious halls with floating 

shades 
Suspended he that task, but ever gazed 
And gazed, till meaning on his vacant 

mind 
Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw 
The thrilling secrets of the birth of time. 

Meanwhile an Arab maiden brought his 
food, 129 

Her daily portion, from her father's tent. 
And spread her matting for his couch, and 

stole 
From duties and repose to tend his steps, 
Enamoured, yet not daring for deep awe 
To speak her love, and watched his nightly 

sleep. 
Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips 
Parted in slumber, whence the regular 

breath 
Of innocent dreams arose; then, when red 

morn 
Made paler the pale moon, to her cold 

home 
Wildered, and wan, and panting, she re- 
turned. 

The Poet, wandering on, through Ara- 
bic, 140 
And Persia, and the wild Carmanian waste. 
And o'er the aerial mountains which pour 

down 
Indus and Oxus from their icy caves, 
In joy and exultation held his way; 



Till in the vale of Cashmire, far within 
Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants en* 

twine 
Beneath the hollow rocks a natural bower, 
Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched 
His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep 
There came, a dream of hopes that never 

yet 15a 

Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a 

veiled maid 
Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones. 
Her voice was like the voice of his own 

soul 
Heard in the calm of thought; its music 

long, 
Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, 

held 
His inmost sense suspended in its web 
Of many-colored woof and shifting hues. 
Knowledge and truth and virtue were her 

themCj 
And lofty hopes of divine liberty, 159 

Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy, 
Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood 
Of her pure mind kindled through all her 

frame 
A permeating fire; wild numbers then 
She raised, with voice stifled in tremulous 

sobs 
Subdued by its own pathos; her fair hands 
Were bare alone, sweeping from some 

strange harp 
Strange symphony, and in their branching 

veins 
The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale. 
The beating of her heart was heard to fill 
The pauses of her music, and her breath 
Tumultuously accorded with those fits 171 
Of intermitted song. Sudden she rose. 
As if her heart impatiently endured 
Its bursting burden; at the sound he turned, 
And saw by the warm light of their own 

life 
Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous veil 
Of woven wind, her outspread arms now 

bare, 
Her dark locks floating in the breath of 

night, 
Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips 
Outstretched, and pale, and quivering 

eagerly. i8a 

His strong heart sunk and sickened with 

excess 
Of love. He reared his shuddering limbs, 

and quelled 



36 



ALASTOR 



His gasping breatli, aud spread his arms to 

meet 
Her panting bosom : — she drew back 

awhile, 
Then, yielding to the irresistible joy, 
With frantic gesture and sliort breathless 

cry 
Folded his frame in her dissolving arms. 
Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and 

night 
Involved and swallowed up the vision ; 

sleep, 189 

Like a dark flood suspended in its course. 
Rolled back its impulse on his vacant brain. 

Roused by the shock, he started from his 

trance — 
The cold white light of morning, the blue 

moon 
Low in the west, the clear and garish hills, 
The distinct valley and the vacant woods, 
Spread round him where he stood. Whither 

have fled 
The hues of heaven that canopied his 

bower 
Of yesternight ? The sounds that soothed 

his sleep, 
The mystery and the majesty of Earth, 
The joy, the exultation ? His wan eyes 200 
Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly 
As ocean's moon looks on the moon in 

heaven. 
The spirit of sweet human love has sent 
A vision to the sleep of him who spurned 
Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues 
Beyond the realms of dream that fleeting 

shade; 
He overleaps the bounds. Alas ! alas ! 
Were limbs and breath and being inter- 
twined 
Thus treacherously ? Lost, lost, forever 

lost 209 

In the wide pathless desert of dim sleep. 
That beautiful shape ! Does the dark gate 

of death 
CoJiduct to thy mysterious paradise, 
O Sleep ? Does the bright arch of rain- 
bow clouds 
And pendent mountains seen in the calm 

lake 
Lead only to a black and watery depth, 
While death's blue vault with loathliest 

vapors hung. 
Where every shade which the foul grave 
exhales 



Hides its dead eye from the detested day, 
Conducts, O Sleep, to thy delightful realms? 
This doubt with sudden tide flowed on his 

heart ; 220 

The insatiate hope which it awakened 

stung 
His brain even like despair. 

While daylight held 
The sky, the Poet kept mute conference 
With his still soul. At night the passion 

came, 
Like the fierce fiend of a distempered 

dream, 
And shook him from his rest, and led him 

forth 
Into the darkness. As an eagle, grasped 
In folds of the green serpent, feels her 

breast 
Burn with the poison, and precipitates 
Through night aud day, tempest, and calm, 

and cloud, 230 

Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind 

flight 
O'er the wide aery wilderness: thus driven 
By the bright shadow of that lovely dream, 
Beneath the cold glare of the desolate 

night. 
Through tangled swamps and deep preci- 
pitous dells, 
Startling with careless step the moon-light 

snake, 
He fled. Red morning dawned upon his 

flight, 
Shedding the mockery of its vital hues 
Upon his cheek of death. He wandered 

on 239 

Till vast Aornos seen from Petra's steep 
Hung o'er the low horizon like a cloud; 
Through Balk, and where the desolated 

tombs 
Of Parthian kings scatter to every wind 
Their wasting dust, wildly he wandered on, 
Day after day, a weary waste of hours. 
Bearing within his life the brooding care 
That ever fed on its decaying flame. 
And now his limbs were lean; his scattered 

hair, 
Sered by the autumn of strange suffering. 
Sung dirges in the wind; his listless hand 
Hung like dead bone within its withered 

skin; 251 

Life, and the lustre that consumed it 

shone, 
As in a furnace burning secretly. 



ALASTOR 



37 



From his dark eyes alone. The cottagers, 

Who ministered with human charity 

His human wants, beheld with wondering 

awe 
Their fleeting visitant. The mountaineer. 
Encountering on some dizzy precipice 
That spectral form, deemed that the Spirit 

of Wind, 
With lightning eyes, and eager breath, and 

feet 260 

Disturbing not the drifted snow, had paused 
In its career; the infant would conceal 
His troubled visage in his mother's robe 
In terror at the glare of those wild eyes, 
To remember their strange light in many a 

dream 
Of after times ; but youthful maidens, 

taught 
By nature, would interpret half the woe 
That wasted him, would call him with false 

names 
Brother and friend, would press his pallid 

hand 
At parting, and watch, dim through tears, 

the path 270 

Of his departure from their father's door. 

At length upon the lone Chorasmian shore 
He paused, a wide and melancholy waste 
Of putrid marshes. A strong impulse urged 
His steps to the sea-shore. A swan was 

there, 
Beside a sluggish stream among the reeds. 
It rose as he approached, and, with strong 

wings 
Scaling the upward sky, bent its bright 

course 
High over the immeasurable main. 
His eyes pursued its flight: — ' Thou hast a 

home, 280 

Beautiful bird ! thou voyagest to thine 

home. 
Where thy sweet mate will twine her downy 

neck 
With thine, and welcome thy return with 

eyes 
Bright in the lustre of their own fond joy. 
And what am I that I should linger here, 
With voice far sweeter than thy dying 

notes, 
Spirit more vast than thine, frame more 

attuned 
To beauty, wasting these surpassing powers 
(n the deaf air, to the blind earth, and 

beavea 



That echoes not my thoughts ? ' A gloomy 

smile 290 

Of desperate hope wrinkled his quivering 

lijjs. 
For sleep, he knew, kept most relentlessly 
Its precious charge, and silent death ex- 
posed, 
Faithless perhaps as sleep, a shadowy lure, 
With doubtful smile mocking its owu 
strange charms. 

Startled by his own thoughts, he looked 

around. 
There wa£ no fair fiend near him, not a 

sight 
Or sound of awe but in his own deep mind. 
A little shallop floating near the shore 
Caught the impatient wandering of his 

gaze. 300 

It had been long abandoned, for its sides 
Gaped wide with many a rift, and its frafl 

joints 
Swayed with the undulations of the tide. 
A restless impulse urged him to embark 
And meet lone Death on the drear ocean's 

waste; 
For well he knew that mighty Shadow 

loves 
The slimy caverns of the populous deep. 

The day was fair and sunny ; sea and sky 
Drank its inspiring radiance, and the wind 
Swept strongly from the shore, blackening 

the waves. 31a 

Following his eager soul, the wanderer 
Leaped in the boat ; he spread his cloak 

aloft 
On the bare mast, and took his lonely seat, 
And felt the boat speed o'er the tranquil 

sea 
Like a torn cloud before the hurricane. 

As one that in a silver vision floats 
Obedient to the sweep of odorous winds 
Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly 
Along the dark and ruffled waters fled 
The straining boat. A whirlwind swept it 

on, 32a 

With fierce gusts and precipitating force, 
Through the white ridges of the chafed sea. 
The waves arose. Higher and higher still 
Their fierce necks writhed beneath the 

tempest's scourge 
Like serpents struggling in a vulture's 

grasp. 



38 



ALASTOR 



Calm and rejoicing in the fearful war 

Of wave ruining on wave, and blast on blast 

Descending, and black flood on whirlpool 

driven 
With dark obliterating course, he sate: 
As if their genii were the ministers 330 

Appointed to conduct him to the light 
Of those beloved eyes, the Poet sate, 
Holding the steady helm. Evening came 

on; 
The beams of sunset hung their rainbow 

hues 
High 'mid the shifting domes of sheeted 

spray 
That canopied his path o'er the waste deep ; 
Twilight, ascending slowly from the east. 
Entwined in duskier wreaths her braided 

locks 
O'er the fair front and radiant eyes of Day; 
Night followed, clad with stars. On every 

side 340 

More horribly the multitudinous streams 
Of ocean's mountainous waste to mutual 

war 
Rushed in dark tumult thundering, as to 

mock 
The calm and spangled sky. The little 

boat 
Still fled before the storm; still fled, like 

foam 
Down the steep cataract of a wintry river; 
Now pausing on the edge of the riven wave ; 
Now leaving far behind the bursting mass 
That fell, convulsing ocean ; safely fled — 
As if that frail and wasted human form 350 
Had been an elemental god. 

At midnight 
The moon arose; and lo! the ethereal cliffs 
Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone 
Among the stars like sunlight, and around 
Whose caverned base the whirlpools and 

the waves 
Bursting and eddying irresistibly 
Rage and resound forever. — Who shall 

save ? — 
The boat fled on, — the boiling torrent 

drove, — 
The crags closed round with black and 

jagged arms, 359 

The shattered mountain overhung the sea, 
And faster still, beyond all human speed, 
Suspended on the sweep of the smooth 

wave. 
The little boat was driven. A cavern there 



Yawned, and amid its slant and winding 

depths 
Ingulfed the rushing sea. The boat fled on 
With unrelaxing speed. — * Vision and 

Love ! ' 
The Poet cried aloud, ' I have beheld 
The path of thy departure. Sleep and 

death 
Shall not divide us long.' 

The boat pursued 
The windings of the cavern. Daylight 

shone 370 

At length upon that gloomy river's flow; 
Now, where the fiercest war among the 

waves 
Is calm, on the unfathomable stream 
The boat moved slowly. Where the moun- 
tain, riven. 
Exposed those black depths to the azure 

sky, 
Ere yet the flood's enormous volume fell 
Even to the base of Caucasus, with sound 
That shook the everlasting rocks, the mass 
Filled with one whirlpool all that ample 

chasm; 379 

Stair above stair the eddying waters rose. 
Circling immeasurably fast, and laved 
With alternating dash the gnarled roots 
Of mighty trees, that stretched their giant 

arms 
In darkness over it. I' the midst was left, 
Reflecting yet distorting every cloud, 
A pool of treacherous and tremendous 

calm. 
Seized by the sway of the ascending stream. 
With dizzy swiftness, round and round and 

round, 
Ridge after ridge the straining boat arose, 
Till on the verge of the extremest curve. 
Where through an opening of the rocky 

bank 391 

The waters overflow, and a smooth spot 
Of glassy quiet 'mid those battling tides 
Is left, the boat paused shuddering. — 

Shall it sink 
Down the abyss ? Shall the reverting 

stress 
Of that resistless gulf embosom it ? 
Now shall it fall ? — A wandering stream 

of wind 
Breathed from the west, has caught the 

expanded sail. 
And, lo ! with gentle motion between banks 
Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream, 40a 



ALASTOR 



39 



Beneath a woven grove, it sails, and, hark ! 
The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar 
With the breeze murmuring in the musical 

woods. 
Where the embowering trees recede, and 

leave 
A little space of green expanse, the cove 
Is closed by meeting banks, whose yellow 

flowers 
Forever gaze on their own drooping eyes, 
Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave 
Of the boat's motion marred their pensive 

task, 
Which naught but vagrant bird, or wanton 

winf^, 410 

Or falling spear-grass, or their own decay 
ilad e'er disturbed before. The Poet 

longed 
To deck with their bright hues his withered 

hair, 
But on his heart its solitude returned, 
And he forbore. Not the strong impulse 

hid 
In those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and 

shadowy frame, 
Had yet performed its ministry; it hung 
Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud 
Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the 

floods 419 

Of night close over it. 

The noonday sun 
Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass 
Of mingling shade, whose brown magnifi- 
cence 
A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge 

caves, 
Scooped in the dark base of their aery 

rocks. 
Mocking its moans, respond and roar for- 
ever. 
The meeting boughs and implicated leaves 
Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as, led 
By love, or dream, or god, or mightier 

Death, 
He sought in Nature's dearest haunt some 



bank. 



429 



Her cradle and his sepulchre. More dark 
And dark the shades accumulate. The oak, 
Expanding its immense and knotty arms, 
Embraces the light beech. The pyramids 
Of the tall cedar overarching frame 
Most solemn domes within, and far below. 
Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky, 
The ash and the acacia floating hang 



Tremulous and pale. Like restless ser- 
pents, clothed 
In rainbow and in fire, the parasites. 
Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow 

around 440 

The gray trunks, and, as gamesome infants' 

eyes, 
With gentle meanings, and most innocent 

wiles, 
Fold their beams round the hearts of those 

that love, 
These twine their tendrils with the wedded 

boughs. 
Uniting their close union; the woven leaves 
Make network of the dark blue light of day 
And the night's noontide clearness, mutable 
As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy 

lawns 
Beneath these canopies extend their swells, 
Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed 

with blooms 450 

Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen 
Sends from its woods of musk-rose twin'^ 

with jasmine 
A soul-dissolving odor to invite 
To some more lovely mystery. Through 

the dell 
Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, 

keep 
Their noonday watch, and sail among the 

shades. 
Like vaporous shapes half-seen; beyond, a 

well, 
Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent 

wave. 
Images all the woven boughs above, 459 
And each depending leaf, and every speck 
Of azure sky darting between their chasms; 
Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves 
Its portraiture, but some inconstant star, 
Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair, 
Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moou, 
Or gorgeous insect floating motionless. 
Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings 
Have spread their glories to the gaze of 

noon. 

Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld 
Their own wan light through the reflected 

lines 470 

Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth 
Of that still fountain ; as the human heart, 
Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave, 
Sees its own treacherous likeness there. He 

heard 



40 



ALASTOR 



The motion of the leaves — the grass that 

sprung 
Startled and glaneed and trembled even to 

feel 
An unaccustomed presence — and the sound 
Of the sweet brook that from the secret 

springs 
Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit 

seemed 
To stand beside him — clothed in no bright 

robes 480 

Of shadowy silver or enshrining light, 
Borrowed from aught the visible world 

afPords 
Of grace, or majesty, or mystery; 
But undulating woods, and silent well. 
And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom 
Now deepening the dark shades, for speech 

assuming. 
Held commune with him, as if he and it 
Were all that was ; only — when his regard 
Was raised by intense pensiveness — two 

eyes, 
Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of 

thought, 490 

And seemed with their serene and azure 

smiles 
To beckon him. 

Obedient to the light 
That shone within his soul, he went, pur- 
suing 
The windings of the dell. The rivulet, 
Wanton and wild, through many a green 

ravine 
Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it 

fell 
Among the moss with hollow harmony 
Dark and profound. Now on the polished 

stones 
It danced, like childhood laughing as it 

went ; 
Then, through the plain in tranquil wan- 
derings crept, 500 
Reflecting every herb and drooping bud 
That overhung its quietness. — ' O stream ! 
Whose source is inaccessibly profound, 
Whither do thy mysterious waters tend ? 
Thou imagest my life. Thy darksome still- 
ness. 
Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow 

gulfs, 
Thy searchless fountain and invisible course. 
Have each their type in me ; and the wide 
sky 



And measureless ocean may declare as soon 
What oozy cavern or what wandering 

cloud 510 

Contains thy waters, as the universe 
Tell where these living thoughts reside, 

when stretched 
Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall 

waste 
I' the passing wind ! ' 

Beside the grassy shore 
Of the small stream he went ; he did im- 
press 
On the green moss his tremulous step, that 

caught 
Strong shuddering from his burning limbs. 

As one 
Roused by some joyous madness from the 

couch 
Of fever, he did move ; yet not like him 
Forgetful of the grave, where, when the 

flame 520 

Of his frail exultation shall be spent. 
He must descend. With rapid steps he 

went 
Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow 
Of the wild babbling rivulet ; and now 
The forest's solemn canopies were changed 
For the uniform and lightsome evening sky. 
Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, 

and stemmed 
The struggling brook ; tall spires of win- 

dlestrae 
Threw their thin shadows down the rugged 

slope. 
And nought but gnarled roots of ancient 

pines 530 

Branchless and blasted, clenched with 

grasping roots 
The unwilling soil. A gradual change was 

here 
Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow away. 
The smooth brow gathers, and the hair 

grows thin 
And white, and where irradiate dewy eyes 
Had shone, gleam stony orbs : — so from 

his steps 
Bright flowers departed, and the beautiful 

shade 
Of the green groves, with all their odorous 

winds 
And musical motions. Calm he still pur- 
sued 
The stream, that with a larger volume 

now S4<» 



ALASTOR 



41 



Rolled through the labyrinthine dell ; and 

there 
Fretted a path through its descending 

curves 
With its wintry speed. On every side now 

rose 
Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms, 
Lifted their black and barren piunacles 
In the light of evening, and its preci- 
pice 
Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above, 
'Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and yawn- 
ing caves, 
Whose windings gave ten thousand various 

tongues 
To the loud stream. Lo ! where the pass 

expands 550 

Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks. 
And seems with its accumulated crags 
To overhang the world ; for wide expand 
Beneath the wan stars and descending moon 
Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty 

streams. 
Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous 

gloom 
Of leaden-colored even, and fiery hills 
Mingling their flames with twilight, on the 

verge 
Of the remote horizon. The near scene. 
In naked and severe simplicity, 560 

Made contrast with the universe. A pine. 
Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the vacancy 
Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast 
Yielding one only response at each pause 
In most familiar cadence, with the howl. 
The thunder and the hiss of homeless 

streams 
Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad 

river 
Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged path, 
Fell into that immeasurable void, 
Scattering its waters to the passing 

winds. 570 

Yet the gray precipice and solemn pine 
And torrent were not all; — one silent nook 
Was there. Even on the edge of that vast 

mountain, 
Upheld by knotty roots and fallen rocks. 
It overlooked in its serenity 
The dark earth and the bending vault of 

stars. 
It was a tranquil spot that seemed to smile 
Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped 
The fissured stones with its entwining arms, 



And did embower with leaves forever 

green 580 

And berries dark the smooth and even 

space 
Of its inviolated floor ; and here 
The children of the autumnal whirlwind 

bore 
In wanton sport those bright leaves whose 

decay, 
Red, yellow, or ethereally pale, 
Rivals the pride of summer. 'T is the haunt 
Of every gentle wind whose breath can 

teach 
The wilds to love tranquillity. One step, 
One human step alone, has ever broken 
The stillness of its solitude ; one voice 590 
Alone inspired its echoes ; — even that voice 
Which hither came, floating among the 

winds. 
And led the loveliest among human forms 
To make their wild haunts the depository 
Of all the grace and beauty that endued 
Its motions, render up its majesty. 
Scatter its music on the unfeeling storm. 
And to the damp leaves and blue cavern 

mould. 
Nurses of rainbow flowers and branching 

moss, 
Commit the colors of that varying cheek, 600 
That snowy breast, those dark and droop- 
ing eyes. 

The dim and horned moon hung low, and 

poured 
A sea of lustre on the horizon's verge 
That overflowed its mountains. Yellow 

mist 
Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and 

drank 
Wan moonlight even to fulness ; not a star 
Shone, not a sound was heard ; the very 

winds. 
Danger's grim playmates, on that precipice 
Slept, clasped in his embrace. — O storm 

of death. 
Whose sightless speed divides this sullen 

night ! 6ia 

And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still 
Guiding its irresistible career 
In thy devastating omnipotence, 
Art king of this frail world ! from the red 

field 
Of slaughter, from the reeking hospital, 
The patriot's sacred couch, the snowy bed 
Of innocence, the scaffold and the throne, 



42 



ALASTOR 



A mighty voice invokes thee ! Ruin calls 
His brother Death ! A rare and regal prey 
He hath prepared, prowling around tlie 

world ; 620 

Glutted with which thou mayst repose, and 

men 
Go to their graves like flowers or creeping 

worms, 
Nor ever more offer at thy dark shrine 
The unheeded tribute of a broken heart. 

When on the threshold of the green 

recess 
The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew that 

death 
Was on him. Yet a little, ere it fled, 
Did he resign his high and holy soul 
To images of the majestic past, 629 

That paused within his passive being now, 
Like winds that bear sweet music, when 

they breathe 
Through some dim latticed chamber. He 

did place 
His pale lean hand upon the rugged trunk 
Of the old pine; upon an ivied stone 
Reclined his languid head; his limbs did 

rest. 
Diffused and motionless, on the smooth 

brink 
Of that obscurest chasm; — and thus he 

lay. 
Surrendering to their final impulses 
The hovering powers of life. Hope and 

Despair, 
The torturers, slept; no mortal pain or 

fear 640 

Marred his repose; the influxes of sense 
And his own being, unalloyed by pain, 
Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fed 
The stream of thought, till he lay breath- 
ing there 
At peace, and faintly smiling. His last 

sight 
Was the great moon, which o'er the western 

line 
Of the wide world her mighty horn sus- 
pended. 
With whose dun beams inwoven darkness 

seemed 
To mingle. Now upon the jagged hills 
It rests; and still as the divided frame 650 
Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood. 
That ever beat in mystic sympathy 
With Nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler 

still; 



And when two lessening points of ligU 

alone 
Gleamed through the darkness, the alter 

nate gasp 
Of his faint respiration scarce did stir 
The stagnate night : — till the minutest ray 
Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in 

his heart. 
It paused — it fluttered. But when hea- 
ven remained 659 
Utterly black, the murky shades involved 
An image silent, cold, and motionless. 
As their own voiceless earth and vacant 

air. 
Even as a vapor fed with golden beams 
That ministered on sunlight, ere the west 
Eclipses it, was now that wondrous frame — 
No sense, no motion, no divinity — 
A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings 
The breath of heaven did wander — a bright 

stream 
Once fed with many-voiced waves — a 

dream 
Of youth, which night and time have 

quenched forever — 670 

Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered 

now. 

Oh, for Medea's wondrous alchemy, 
Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth 

gleam 
With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs 

exhale 
From vernal blooms fresh fragrance ! Oh, 

that God, 
Profuse of poisons, would concede the 

chalice 
Which but one living man has drained, whC 

now. 
Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feeli 
No proud exemption in the blighting curse 
He bears, over the world wanders for- 
ever, 680 
Lone as incarnate death ! Oh, that the 

dream 
Of dark magician in his visioned cave, 
Raking the cinders of a crucible 
For life and power, even when his feeble 

hand 
Shakes in its last decay, were the true law 
Of this so lovely world ! But thou art fled, 
Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn 
Robes in its golden beams, — ah ! thou 

hast fled ! 
The brave, the gentle and the beautiful. 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM: INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



43 



The child of grace and genius. Heartless 
things 690 

Are done and said i' the world, and many 
worms 

And beasts and men live on, and mighty 
Earth 

From sea and mountain, city and wilder- 
ness, 

In vesper low or joyous orison. 

Lifts still its solemn voice : — but thou art 
fled — 

Thou canst no longer know or love the 
shapes 

Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee 

Been purest ministers, who are, alas ! 

Now thou art not ! Upon those pallid lips 

So sweet even in their silence, on those 
eyes 700 

That image sleep in death, upon that form 

Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let no 
tear 

Be shed — not even in thought. Nor, when 
those hues 

Are gone, and those divinest lineaments, 

Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone 



In the frail pauses of this simple strain, 
Let not high verse, mourning the memory 
Of that which is no more, or painting's 

woe 
Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery 
Their own cold powers. Art and elo- 
quence, 7I(D 
And all the shows o' the world, are frail 

and vain 
To weep a loss that turns their lights tc 

shade. 
It is a woe "too deep for tears," wbeq 

all 
Is reft at once, when some surpassing 

Spirit, 
Whose light adorned the world around it;, 

leaves 
Those who remain behind, not sobs 01 

groans. 
The passionate tumult of a clinging hope; 
But pale despair and cold tranquillity. 
Nature's vast frame, the web of human 

things. 
Birth and the grave, that are not as they 

were. 720 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



A POEM 



IN TWELVE CANTOS 



02AI2 AE BPOTON E0NO2 AFAAIAIS AHTOMESQA, 

HEPAINEI nP02 E2XAT0N 
HAOON- NAY2I A' OYTE HEZOS ION AN EYP0I2 
E2 YnEPBOPEHN APONA ©AYMATAN OAON. 

Pindar, Pyth. X. 



The Revolt of Islam is a return to the social 
and political propaganda of Queen Mab, thoug-h 
the narrative element is stronger and the ideal 
characterization is along the more human lines 
of Alastor. It belongs distinctly in the class 
of reform poems and obeys a didactic motive 
in the same way as does the Faerie Queene, in 
the stanza of which it is written. It was com- 
posed in the spring and summer of 1817, and 
embodies the opinions of Shelley nearly as 
completely as Queen Mab had done, five years 
earlier. It was printed under the title Laon 
and Cythna ; or, The Revolution of the Golden 
City : A Vision of the Nineteenth Century ; a 
few copies only were issued, when the pub- 
lisher refused to proceed with the work unless 
radical alterations were made in the text. 
Shelley reluctantly consented to this, and made 
the required changes. The title was altered. 



and the work published. The circumstances 
under which the poem was written are told by 
Mrs. Shelley, with a word upon the main 
characters : 

' He chose for his hero a youth nourished in 
dreams of liberty, some of whose actions are 
in direct opposition to the opinions of the 
world, but who is animated throughout by an 
ardent love of virtue, and a resolution to confer 
the boons of political and intellectual freedom 
on his fellow-creatures. He created for this 
youth a woman such as he delighted to imagine 
— full of enthusiasm for the same objects; 
and they both, with will unvanquished and the 
deepest sense of the justice of their cause, met 
adversity and death. There exists in this poem 
a memorial of a friend of his youth. The 
character of the old man who liberates Laon 
from his tower prison, and tends on him in. 



44 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



sickness, is founded on that of Doctor Lind, 
who, when Shelley was at Eton, had often 
stood by to befriend and support him, and 
whose name he never mentioned without love 
and veneration. 

' During- the year 1817 we were established 
at Marlow, in Buckinghamshire. Shelley's 
choice of abode was fixed chiefly by this town 
being at no great distance from London, and 
its neighborhood to the Thames. The poem 
was written in his boat, as it floated under the 
beech groves of Bisham, or during wanderings 
in the neig-hboring country, which is distin- 
guished for peculiar beauty. The chalk hills 
break into cliffs that overhang the Thames, or 
form valleys clothed with beech ; the wilder 
portion of the country is rendered beautiful by 
exuberant vegetation ; and the cultivated part 
is peculiarly fertile. With all this wealth of 
nature which, either in the form of gentle- 
men's parks or soil dedicated to agriculture, 
flourishes around, Marlow was inhabited (I 
hope it is altered now) by a very poor popu- 
lation. The women are lacemakers, and lose 
their health by sedentary labor, for which they 
were very ill paid. The poor-laws ground to 
the dust not only the paupers, but those who 
had risen just above that state, and were 
obliged to pay poor-rates. The changes pro- 
duced by peace following a long war, and a 
bad harvest, brought with them the most 
heart-rending evils to the poor. Shelley af- 
forded what alleviation he could. In the winter, 
while bringing out his poem, he had a severe 
attack of ophthalmia, caught while visiting the 
poor cottages. I mention these things, — for 
this minute and active sympathy with his 
fellow-creatures gives a thousand-fold interest 
to his speculations, and stamps with reality his 
pleadings for the human race.' 

Shelley himself gave two accounts of the 
poem, of which the most interesting occurs in 
a letter to Godwin, December 11, 1817: 

' The Poem was produced by a series of 
thoughts which filled my mind with unbounded 
and sustained enthusiasm. I felt the preca- 
riousness of my life, and I engaged in this 
task, resolved to leave some record of myself. 
Much of what the volume contains was written 
with the same feeling, as real, though not so 
prophetic, as the communications of a dying 
man. I never presumed indeed to consider it 
anything approaching to faultless ; but when I 
consider contemporary productions of the same 
apparent pretensions, I own I was filled with 
confidence. I felt that it was in many respects 
a genuine picture of my own mind. I felt that 
the sentiments were true, not assumed. And 
in . this have I long believed that my power 
consists; in sympathy and that part of the 



imagination which relates to sentiment and 
contemplation. I am formed, if for anything 
not in common with the herd of mankind, to 
apprehend minute and remote distinctions of 
feeling, whether relative to external nature or 
the living beings which surround us, and to 
communicate the conceptions which result from 
considering either the moral or the material 
universe as a whole. Of course, I believe these 
faculties, which perhaps comprehend all that 
is sublime in man, to exist very imperfectly, in 
my own mind.' 

The second is contained in an earlier letter 
to a publisher, October 13, 1817 : 

' The whole poem, with the exception of the 
first canto and part of the last, is a mere 
human story without the smallest intermixture 
of supernatural interference. The first canto 
is, indeed, in some measure a distinct poem, 
though very necessary to the wholeness of the 
work. I say this because, if it were all written 
in the manner of the first canto, 1 could not 
expect that it would be interesting to any 
great number of people. I have attempted in 
the progress of my work to speak to the com' 
mon elementary emotions of the human heart, 
so that, though it is the story of violence and 
revolution, it is relieved by milder pictures of 
friendship and love and natural affections. The 
scene is supposed to be laid in Constantinople 
and modern Greece, but without much attempt 
at minute delineation of Mahometan manners. 
It is, in fact, a tale illustrative of such a revo- 
lution as might be supposed to take place in 
an European nation, acted upon by the opinions 
of what has been called (erroneously, as I 
think) the modern philosophy, and contend- 
ing with ancient notions and the supposed 
advantage derivijd from them to those who 
support them. It is a Revolution of this kind 
that is the beau ideal, as it were, of the French 
Revohition, but produced by the influence of 
individual genius and out of general know- 
ledge.' 

Peacock supplements Mrs. Shelley's note, 
with some details of the revision : 

' In the summer of 1817 he wrote The Revolt 
of Islam, chiefly on a seat on a high promi- 
nence in Bisham Wood where he passed whole 
mornings with a blank book and a pencil. 
This work when completed was printed under 
the title of Laon and Cythna. In this poem 
he had carried the expression of his opinions, 
moral, political, and theological, beyond the 
bounds of discretion. The terror which, in 
those days of persecution of the press, the 
perusal of the book inspired in Mr. Oilier, the 
publisher, induced him to solicit the alteration 
of many passages which he had marked. 
Shelley was for some time inflexible ; but Mr. 
OUier's refusal to publish the poem as it was, 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 



4b 



backed by the advice of all his friends, induced 
him to submit to the required changes.' 

Shelley subsequently revised the poem still 
more, in expectation of a second edition, but 
the changes so made are now unknown. 

PREFACE 

The Poem which I now present to the world 
is an attempt from which I scarcely dare to 
expect success, and in which a writer of es- 
tablished fame might fail without disgrace. 
It is an experiment on the temper of the public 
mind as to how far a thirst for a happier con- 
dition of moral and political society survives, 
among the enlightened and refined, the tem- 
pests which have shaken the age in which we 
live. I have sought to enlist the harmony of 
metrical language, the ethereal combinations 
of the fancy, the rapid and subtle transitions 
of human passion, all those elements which 
essentially compose a poem, in the cause of a 
liberal and comprehensive morality ; and in the 
view of kindling within the bosoms of my 
readers a virtuous enthusiasm for those doc- 
trines of liberty and justice, that faith and 
hope in something good, which neither vio- 
lence, nor misrepresentation, nor prejudice, 
can ever totally extinguish among mankind. 

For this purpose I have chosen a story of 
human passion in its most universal character, 
diversified with moving and romantic adven- 
tures, and appealing, in contempt of all arti- 
ficial opinions or institutions, to the common 
sympathies of every human breast. I have 
made no attempt to recommend the motives 
which I would substitute for those at present 
governing mankind, by methodical and sys- 
tematic argument. I would only awaken the 
feelings, so that the reader should see the 
beauty of true virtue, and be incited to those 
inquiries which have led to my moral and po- 
litical creed, and that of some of the sublimest 
intellects in the world. The Poem therefore 
(with the exception of the first Canto, which is 
purely introductory) is narrative, not didactic. 
It is a succession of pictures illustrating the 
growth and progress of individual mind aspir- 
ing after excellence and devoted to the love of 
mankind ; its influence in refining and making 
pure the most daring and uncommon impulses 
of the imagination, the understanding, and the 
senses ; its impatience at ' all the oppressions 
which are done under the sun ; ' its tendency 
to awaken public hope and to enlighten and 
improve mankind ; the rapid effects of the 
application of that tendency ; the awakening 
of an immense nation from their slavery and 
degradation to a true sense of moral dignity 
and freedom ; the bloodless dethronement of 
their oppressors and the unveiling of the reli- 



gious frauds by which they had been deluded 
into submission ; the tranquillity of successful 
patriotism and the universal toleration and 
benevolence of true philanthropy ; the treach« 
ery and barbarity of hired soldiers ; vice not 
the object of punishment and hatred, but 
kindness and pity ; the faithlessness of tyrants ; 
the confederacy of the Rulers of the World 
and the restoration of the expelled Dynasty by 
foreign arms ; the massacre and extermination 
of the Patriots and the victory of established 
power ; the consequences of legitimate despo- 
tism, — civil war, famine, plague, superstition, 
and an utter extinction of the domestic affec- 
tions ; the judicial murder of the advocates of 
liberty ; the temporary triumph of oppression, 
that secure earnest of its final and inevitable 
fall ; the transient nature of ignorance and 
error and the eternity of genius and virtue. 
Such is the series of delineations of which the 
Poem consists. And if the lofty passions with 
which it has been my scope to distinguish this 
story shall not excite in the reader a gener- 
ous impulse, an ardent thirst for excellence, an 
interest profound and strong, such as belongs 
to no meaner desires, let not the failure be 
imputed to a natural unfitness for human 
sympathy in these sublime and animating 
themes. It is the business of the poet to com- 
municate to others the pleasure and the enthu- 
siasm arising out of those images and feelings 
in the vivid presence of which within his own 
mind consists at once his inspiration and his 
reward. 

The panic which, like an epidemic transport, 
seized upon all classes of men during the ex- 
cesses consequent upon the French Revolution, 
is gradually giving place to sanity. It has 
ceased to be believed that whole generations of 
mankind ought to consign themselves to a hope- 
less inheritance of ignorance and misery be- 
cause a nation of men who had been dupes and 
slaves for centuries were incapable of conduct- 
ing themselves with the wisdom and tranquil- 
lity of freemen so soon as some of their fetters 
were partially loosened. That their conduct 
could not have been marked by any other 
characters than ferocity and thoughtlessness is 
the historical fact from which liberty derives 
all its recommendations, and falsehood the 
worst features of its deformity. There is a 
reflux in the tide of human things which bears 
the shipwrecked hopes of men into a secure 
haven after the storms are past. Methinks 
those who now live have survived an age of 
despair. 

The French Revolution may be considered 
as one of those manifestations of a general 
state of feeling among civilized mankind, pro- 
duced by a defect of correspondence between 
the knowledge existing in society and the im.* 



46 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



provement or gradual abolition of political 
institutions. The year 1788 may be assumed 
as the epoch of one of the most important 
crises produced by this feeling-. The sympa- 
thies connected with that event extended to 
every bosom. The most generous and amia- 
ble natures were those which participated the 
most extensively in these sympathies. But 
such a degree of unmingled good was expected 
as it was impossible to realize. If the Revolu- 
tion had been in every respect prosperous, then 
misrule and superstition would lose half their 
claims to our abhorrence, as fetters which the 
captive can unlock with the slightest motion of 
his fingers, and which do not eat with poison- 
ous rust into the soul. The revulsion occa- 
sioned by the atrocities of the demagogues and 
the reestablishment of successive tyrannies in 
France was terrible, and felt in the remot- 
est corner of the civilized world. Could they 
listen to the plea of reason who had groaned 
under the calamities of a social state, according 
to the provisions of which one man riots in lux- 
ury whilst another famishes for want of bread ? 
Can he who the day before was a trampled 
slave suddenly become liberal-minded, forbear- 
ing, and independent ? This is the consequence 
of the habits of a state of society to be pro- 
duced by resolute perseverance and indefatiga- 
ble hope, and long-suifering and long-believing 
courage, and the systematic efforts of genera- 
tions of men of intellect and virtue. Such is 
the lesson which experience teaches now. But 
on the first reverses of hope in the progress 
of French liberty, the sanguine eagerness for 
good overleapt the solution of these questions, 
and for a time extinguished itself in the unex- 
pectedness of their result. Thus many of the 
most ardent and tender-hearted of the wor- 
shippers of public good have been morally 
ruined by what a partial glimpse of the events 
they deplored appeared to show as the melan- 
choly desolation of all their cherished hopes. 
Hence gloom and misanthropy have become 
the characteristics of the age in which we live, 
the solace of a disappointment that uncon- 
sciously finds relief only in the wilful exagger- 
ation of its own despair. This influence has 
tainted the literature of the age with the hope- 
lessness of the minds from which it flows. 
Metaphysics,^ and inquiries into moral and 
political science, have become little else than 
vain attempts to revive exploded superstitions, 
or sophisms like those '^ of Mr. Malthus, calcu- 
lated to lull the oppressors of mankind into a 

^ I ought to except Sir W. Drummond's Academical 
Questions; a volume of very acute and powerful meta- 
physical criticism. 

2 It is remarkable, as a symptom of the revival of 
public hope, that Mr. Malthus has assigned, in the later 
•ditions of bis work, an indefinite dominion to moral 



security of everlasting triumph. Our works 
of fiction and poetry have been overshadowed 
by the same infectious gloom. But mankind 
appear to me to be emerging from their trance. 
I am aware, methinks, of a slow, gradual, 
silent change. In that belief I have composed 
the following Poem. 

I do not presume to enter into competition 
with our greatest contemporary poets. Yet I 
am unwilling to tread in the footsteps of any 
who have preceded me. I have sought to 
avoid the imitation of any style of language or 
versification peculiar to the original minds of 
which it is the character, designing that even 
if what I have produced be worthless, it should 
still be properly my own. Nor have I permit- 
ted any system relating to mere words to divert 
the attention of the reader from whatever in- 
terest I may have succeeded in creating, to my 
own ingenuity in contriving to disgust them 
according to the rules of criticism. I have 
simply clothed my thoughts in what appeared 
to me the most obvious and appropriate lan- 
guage. A person familiar with Nature, and 
with the most celebrated productions of the 
human mind, can scarcely err in following the 
instinct, with respect to selection of language, 
produced by that familiarity. 

There is an education peculiarly fitted for a 
poet, without which genius and sensibility can 
hardly fill the circle of their capacities. No ed- 
ucation indeed can entitle to this appellation 
a dull and unobservant mind, or one, though 
neither dull nor unobservant, in which the chan- 
nels of communication between thought and 
expression have been obstructed or closed. How 
far it is my fortune to belong to either of the 
latter classes I cannot know. I aspire to be 
something better. The circumstances of my ac- 
cidental education have been favorable to this 
ambition. I have been familiar from boyhood 
with mountains and lakes, and the sea, and the 
solitude of forests ; Danger which sports upon 
the brink of precipices has been my playmate. 
I have trodden the glaciers of the Alps, and 
lived under the eye of Mont Blanc. I have 
been a wanderer among distant fields. I have 
sailed down mighty rivers, and seen the sur 
rise and set, and the stars come forth, whilst 1 
have sailed night and day down a rapid stream 
among mountains. I have seen populous cities, 
and have watched the passions which rise and 
spread, and sink and change, amongst asserai- 
bled multitudes of men. I have seen the thea- 
tre of the more visible ravages of tyranny and 

restraint over the principle of population. This con- 
cession answers all the inferences from his doctrine 
unfavorable to human improvement, and reduces the 
Essay on Population to a commentary illustrative of 
the uuanswerableuess of Political Justice, 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 



47 



war, cities and villages reduced to scattered 
groups of black and roofless houses, and the 
naked inhabitants sitting- famished upon their 
desolated thresholds. I have conversed with 
living men of genius. The poetry of ancient 
Greece and Rome, and modei'u Italy, and our 
own country, has been to me like external 
nature, a passion and an enjoyment. Such are 
the sources from which the materials for the 
imagery of my Poem have been drawn. I 
have considered poetry in its most comprehen- 
sive sense, and have read the poets and the his- 
torians, and the metaphysicians ^ whose writ- 
ings have been accessible to me, and have 
looked upon the beautiful and majestic scenery 
of the earth, as common sources of those ele- 
ments which it is the province of the poet to 
embody and combine. Yet the experience and 
the feelings to which I refer do not in them- 
selves constitute men poets, but only prepares 
them to be the auditors of those who are. 
How far I shall be found to possess that more 
essential attribute of poetry, the power of 
awakening in others sensations like those which 
animate my own bosom, is that which, to speak 
sincerely, I know not ; and which, with an 
acquiescent and contented spirit, I expect to 
be taught by the effect which I shall produce 
upon those whom I now address. 

I have avoided, as I have said before, the 
imitation of any contemporary style. But there 
must be a resemblance, which does not depend 
upon their own will, between all the writers of 
any particular age. They cannot escape from 
subjection to a common influence which arises 
out of an infinite combination of circumstances 
belonging to the times in which they live, 
though each is in a degree the author of the 
very influence by which his being is thus per- 
vaded. Thus, the tragic poets of the age of 
Pericles ; the Italian revivers of ancient learn- 
ing ; those mighty intellects of our own country 
that succeeded the Reformation, the translators 
of the Bible, Shakespeare, Spenser, the Dra- 
matists of the reign of Elizabeth, and Lord 
Bacon ; ^ the colder spirits of the interval that 
succeeded ; — all resemble each other, and dif- 
fer from every other in their several classes. 
In this view of things, Ford can no more be 
called the imitator of Shakespeare than Shake- 
speare the imitator of Ford. There were per- 
haps few other points of resemblance between 
these two men than that which the universal 
and inevitable influence of their age produced. 
And this is an influence which neither the mean- 
est scribbler nor the sublimest genius of any 

1 In this sense there may be such a thing as perfecti- 
bility in works of fiction, notwithstanding the conces- 
sion often made by the advocates of human improve- 



era can escape ; and which I have not attempted 
to escape. 

I have adopted the stanza of Spenser (a 
measure inexpressibly beautiful) not because I 
consider it a finer model of poetical harmony 
than the blank verse of Shakespeare and Mil- 
ton, but because in the latter there is no shelter 
for mediocrity ; you must either succeed or fail. 
This perhaps an aspiring spirit should desire. 
But I was enticed also by the brilliancy and 
magnificence of sound which a mind that has 
been nourished upon musical thoughts can pro- 
duce by a just and harmonious arrangement of 
the pauses of tiiis measure. Yet there will be 
found some instances where I have completely 
failed in this attempt, and one, which 1 here 
request the reader to consider as an erratum, 
where there is left most inadvertently an alex- 
andrine in the middle of a stanza. 

But in this, as in every other respect, I have 
written fearlessly. It is the misfortune of this 
age that its writers, too thoughtless of immor- 
tality, are exquisitely sensible to temporary 
praise or blame. They write with the fear of 
Reviews before their eyes. This system of 
criticism sprang up in that torpid interval 
when poetry was not. Poetry and the art 
which professes to regulate and limit its powers 
cannot subsist together. Longinus could not 
have been the contemporary of Homer, nor 
Boileau of Horace. Yet this species of crit- 
icism never presumed to assert an understand- 
ing of its own ; it has always, unlike true 
science, followed, not preceded the opinion 
of mankind, and would even now bribe with 
worthless adulation some of our greatest poets 
to impose gratuitous fetters on their own im- 
aginations and become unconscious accom- 
plices in the daily murder of all genius either 
not so aspiring or not so fortunate as their 
own. I have sought therefore to write, as I 
believe that Homer, Shakespeare, and Miltinn 
wrote, with an utter disregard of anonymoo? 
censure. I am certain that calumny and mis 
representation, though it may move me to com- 
passion, cannot disturb my peace. I shall 
understand the expressive silence of those sa- 
gacious enemies who dare not trust themselves 
to speak. I shall endeavor to extract from 
the midst of insult and contempt and maledic- 
tions those admonitions which may tend to 
correct whatever imperfections such censurers 
may discover in this my first serious appeal to 
the public. If certain critics were as clear- 
sighted as they are malignant, how great would 
be the benefit to be derived from their virulent 

ment, that perfectibility is a term \pplicable only tc 
science. 
2 Milton stands alone in the age which he illumined. 



48 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



writings ! As it is, I fear I shall be malicious 
enough to be amused with their paltry tricks 
and lame invectives. Should the public judge 
that my composition is worthless, I shall in- 
deed bow before the tribunal from which Mil- 
ton received his crown of immortality, and 
shall seek to gather, if I live, strength from 
that defeat, which may nerve me to some new 
enterprise of thought which may not be worth- 
less. I cannot conceive that Lucretius, when 
he meditated that poem whose doctrines are 
yet the basis of our metaphysical knowledge 
and whose eloquence has been the wonder of 
mankind, wrote in awe of such censure as the 
hired sophists of the impure and superstitious 
noblemen of Rome might affix to what he 
should produce. It was at the period when 
Greece was led captive and Asia made tribu- 
tary to the Republic, fast verging itself to 
slavery and ruin, that a multitude of Syrian 
captives, bigoted to the worship of their ob- 
scene Ashtaroth, and the unworthy successors 
of Socrates and Zeno, found there a precarious 
subsistence by administering, under the name 
of freedmen, to the vices and vanities of the 
great. These wretched men were skilled to 
plead, with a superficial but plausible set of 
sophisms, in favor of that contempt for virtue 
which is the portion of slaves, and that faith in 
portents, the most fatal substitute for benevo- 
lence in the imaginations of men, which arising 
from the enslaved communities of the East 
then first began to overwhelm the western na- 
tions in its stream. Were these the kind of 
men whose disapprobation the wise and lofty- 
minded Lucretius should have regarded with 
a salutary awe ? The latest and perhaps the 
meanest of those who follow in his footsteps 
would disdain to hold life on such conditions. 

The Poem now presented to the public oc- 
cupied little more than six months in the 
composition. That period has been devoted to 
the task with unremitting ardor and enthu- 
siasm. I have exercised a watchful and ear- 
nest criticism on my work as it grew under ray 
hands. I would willingly have sent it forth 
to the world with that perfection which long 
labor and revision is said to bestow. But I 
found that if I should gain something in 
exactness by this method, I might lose much 
of the newness and energy of imagery and 
language as it flowed fresh from my mind. 
And although the mere composition occupied 
no more than six months, the thoughts thus 



arranged were slowly gathered in as many 
years. 

I trust that the reader will carefully dis- 
tinguish between those opinions which have a 
dramatic propriety in reference to the char- 
acters which they are designed to elucidate, 
and such as are properly my own. The erro- 
neous and degrading idea which men have con- 
ceived of a Supreme Being, for instance, is 
spoken against, but not the Supreme Being 
itself. The belief which some superstitious 
persons whom I have brought upon the stage 
entertain of the Deity, as injurious to the 
character of his benevolence, is widely different 
from my own. In recommending also a great 
and important change in the spirit which ani- 
mates the social institutions of mankind, I 
have avoided all flattery to those violent and 
malignant passions of our nature which are 
ever on the watch to mingle with and to alloy 
the most beneficial innovations. There is no 
quarter given to revenge, or envy, or prejudice. 
Love is celebrated everywhere as the sole law 
which should govern the moral world. 

In Laon and Cythna the following passage 
was added, in conclusion : 

In the personal conduct of my hero and 
heroine, there is one circumstance which was 
intended to startle the reader from the trance 
of ordinary life. It was my object to break 
through the crust of those outworn opiiiions on 
which established institutions depend. I have 
appealed therefore to the most universal of all 
feelings, and have endeavored to strengthen 
the moral sense by forbidding it to waste its 
energies in seeking to avoid actions which are 
only crimes of convention. It is because there 
is so great a multitude of artificial vices that 
there are so few real virtues. Those feelings 
alone which are benevolent or malevolent are 
essentially good or bad. The circumstance of 
which I speak was introduced, however, merely 
to accustom men to that charitj"^ and tolera- 
tion which the exhibition of a practice widely 
differing from their own has a tendency to 
promote.^ Nothing indeed can be more mis- 
chievous than many actions innocent in them- 
selves which might bring down upon indi- 
viduals the bigoted contempt and rage of the 
multitude. 

1 The sentiments connected with and characteristic 
of this circumstance have no personal reference to the 
writer. 



DEDICATION 

There is no danger to a man that knows 
What life and death is : there's notany law 
Exceeds his knowledge ; neither is it lawful 
That he should stoop to any other law. 

Chapman. 



TO MARY 



49 



TO MARY 



So now my summer-task is ended, Mary, 
And I return to thee, mine own heart's 

home; 
As to his Queen some victor Knight of 

Faery, 
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted 

dome; 
Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame be- 
come 
A star among the stars of mortal night, 
If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom. 
Its doubtful promise thus I would unite 
With thy beloved name, thou Child of love 
and light. 

II 

The toil which stole from thee so many 

an hour. 
Is ended, — and the fruit is at thy feet ! 
No longer where the woods to frame a 

bower 
With interlaced branches mix and meet. 
Or where, with sound like many voices 

sweet, 
Water-falls leap among wild islands 

green. 
Which framed for my lone boat a lone 

-retreat 
Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I 

be seen; 
But beside thee, where still my heart has 

ever been. 

Ill 

Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear 

Friend, when first 
The clouds which wrap this world from 

youth did pass. 
I do remember well the hour which burst 
My spirit's sleep. A fresh May-dawn it 

was. 
When I walked forth upon the glittering 

grass. 
And wept, I knew not why; until there 

rose 
From the near school-room voices that, 

alas! 
Were but one echo from a world of 

woes — 
Che harsh and grating strife of tyrants and 

of foes. 



IV 

And then I clasped my hands and looked 

around, 
But none was near to mock my streaming 

eyes. 
Which poured their warm drops on the 

sunny ground — 
So without shame I spake: — 'I will be 

wise. 
And just, and free, and mild, if in me 

lies 
Such power, for I grow weary to behold 
The selfish and the strong still tyrannize 
Without reproach or check.' I then con- 
trolled 
My tears, my heart grew calm, and I was 

meek and bold. 



And from that hour did I with earnest 
thought 

Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of 
lore; 

Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or 
taught 

I cared to learn, but from that secret 
store 

Wrought linked armor for my soul, be- 
fore 

It might walk forth to war among man- 
kind; 

Thus power and hope were strengthened 
more and more 

Within me, till there came upon my 
mind 
A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I 
pined. 

VI 

Alas, that love should be a blight and 

snare 
To those who seek all sympathies in one ! 
Such once I sought in vain; then black 

despair. 
The shadow of a starless night, was 

thrown 
Over the world in which I moved alone : — 
Yet never found I one not false to me. 
Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy 

stone 
Which crushed and withered mine, that 

could not be 
Aught but a lifeless clog, until rerived by 

thee. 



50 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



VII 



Thou Friend, whose presence on my win- 
try heart 

Fell, like bright Spring upon some herb- 
less plain; 

How beautiful and calm and free thou 
wert 

In thy young wisdom, when the mortal 
chain 

Of Custom thou didst burst and rend in 
twain, 

And walked as free as light the clouds 
among, 

Which many an envious slave then 
breathed in vain 

From his dim dungeon, and my spirit 
sprung 
Xo meet thee from the woes which had 
begirt it long ! 

VIII 

No more alone through the world's wil- 
derness. 
Although I trod the paths of high intent, 
X journeyed now; no more companion- 
less, 
Where solitude is like despair, I went. 
There is the wisdom of a stern content 
When Poverty can blight the just and 

good. 
When Infamy dares mock the innocent. 
And cherished friends turn with the mul- 
titude 
To trample: this was ours, and we un- 
shaken stood ! 

IX 

Now has descended a serener hour, 
And with inconstant fortune, friends re- 
turn; 
Though suffering leaves the knowledge 

and the power 
Which says, — Let scorn be not repaid 

with scorn. 
And from thy side two gentle babes are 

born 
To fill our home with smiles, and thus 

are we 
Most fortunate beneath life's beaming 

morn; 
And these delights, and thou, have been 

to me 
llie parents of the Song I consecrate to 

thee. 



Is it that now my inexperienced fingers 

But strike the prelude of a loftier strain? 

Or must the lyre on which my spirit lin- 
gers 

Soon pause in silence, ne'er to sound 
again. 

Though it might shake the Anarch Cus- 
tom's reign. 

And charm the minds of men to Truth's 
own sway. 

Holier than was Amphion's ? I would 
fain 

Reply in hope — but I am worn away, 
And Death and Love are yet contending 
for their prey. 

XI 

And what art thou ? I know, but dare 

not speak: 
Time may interpret to his silent years. 
Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful 

cheek, 
And in the light thine ample forehead 

wears, 
And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy 

tears. 
And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy 
Is whispered to subdue my fondest fears; 
And, through thine eyes, even in thy soul 

I see 
A lamp of vestal fire burning internally. 

XII 

They say that thou wert lovely from thy 

birth. 
Of glorious parents thou aspiring Child ! 
I wonder not — for One then left this 

earth 
Whose life was like a setting planet 

mild. 
Which clothed thee in the radiance uude- 

filed 
Of its departing glory; still her fame 
Shines on thee, through the tempests 

dark and wild 
Which shake these latter days; and thou 

canst claim 
The shelter, from thy Sire, of an immortal 

name. 

XIII 

One voice came forth from many a 
mighty spirit, 



CANTO FIRST 



51 



Which was the echo of three thousand 

years: 
And the tumultuous world stood mute to 

hear it, 
As some lone man who in a desert hears 
The music of his home : — unwonted 

fears 
Fell on the pale oppressors of our race, 
And Faith, and Custom, and low- 

thoughted cares. 
Like thunder -stricken dragons, for a 

space 
Left the torn human heart, their food and 

dwelling-place. 

XIV 

Truth's deathless voice pauses among 
mankind ! 

If there must be no response to my 
cry — 

If men must rise and stamp with fury 
blind 

On his pure name who loves them, — 
thou and I, 

Sweet Friend ! can look from our tran- 
quillity 

Like lamps into the world's tempestuous 
night, — 

Two tranquil stars, while clouds are 
passing by 

Which wrap them from the foundering 
seaman's sight, 
That burn from year to year with unextin- 
guished light. 



CANTO FIRST 



When the last hope of trampled France 
had failed 

Like a brief dream of unremaining glory. 

From visions of despair I rose, and 
scaled 

The peak of an aerial promontory. 

Whose caverned base with the vexed 
surge was hoary; 

And saw the golden dawn break forth, 
and waken 

Each cloud and every wave: — but tran- 
sitory 

The calm; for sudden, the firm earth 
was shaken. 
As if by the last wreck its frame were over- 
taken. 



II 

So as I stood, one blast of muttering 

thunder 
Burst in far peals along the waveless deep. 
When, gathering fast, around, above 

and under, 
Long trains of tremulous mist began io 

creep. 
Until their complicating lines did steep 
The orient sun in shadow: — not a sound 
Was heard; one horrible repose did keep 
The forests and the floods, and all around 
Darkness more dread than night was 

poured upon the ground. 

Ill 

Hark ! 't is the rushing of a wind that 
sweeps 

Earth and the ocean. See! the light- 
nings yawn. 

Deluging Heaven with fire, and the 
lashed deeps 

Glitter and boil beneath! it rages on. 

One mighty stream, whirlwind and waves 
upt brown. 

Lightning, and hail, and darkness eddy- 
ing by! 

There is a pause — the sea-birds, that 
were gone 

Into their caves to shriek, come forth to 

spy 

What calm has fall'n on earth, what light 
is in the sky. 

IV 

For, where the irresistible storm had 

cloven 
That fearful darkness, the blue sky was 

seen, 
Fretted with many a fair cloud inter- 
woven 
Most delicately, and the ocean green. 
Beneath that opening spot of blue serene, 
Quivered like burning emerald; calm 

was spread 
On all below; but far on high, between 
Earth and the upper air, the vast clouds 
fled. 
Countless and swift as leaves on autumn's 
tempest shed. 



For ever as the war became more fierce 
Between the whirlwinds and the rack on 
high, 



52 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



That spot grew more serene; blue light 

did pierce 
The woof of those white clouds, which 

seemed to lie 
Far, deep and motionless; while through 

the sky 
The pallid semicircle of the moon 
Passed on, in slow and moving majesty ; 
Its upper horn arrayed in mists, which 

soon, 
But slowly, fled, like dew beneath the 

beams of noon. 

VI 

I could not choose but gaze; a fascina- 
tion 

Dwelt in that moon, and sky, and clouds, 
which drew 

My fancy thither, and in expectation 

Of what I knew not, I remained. The 
hue 

Of the white moon, amid that heaven so 
blue 

Suddenly stained with shadow did ap- 
pear; 

A speck, a cloud, a shape, approaching 
grew. 

Like a great ship in the sun's sinking 
sphere 
Beheld afar at sea, and swift it came anear. 

VII 

Even like a bark, which from a chasm of 

mountains, 
Dark, vast and overhanging, on a river 
Which there collects the strength of all 

its fountains, 
Comes forth, whilst with the speed its 

frame doth quiver. 
Sails, oars and stream, tending to one 

endeavor; 
So, from that chasm of light a winged 

Form 
On all the winds of heaven approaching 

ever 
Floated, dilating as it came; the storm 
Pursued it with fierce blasts, and light- 
nings swift and warm. 

VIII 

A course precipitous, of dizzy speed. 
Suspending thought and breath; a mon- 
strous sight! 
For in the air do I behold indeed 



An Eagle and a Serpent wreathed in 

fight : — 
And now, relaxing its impetuous flight, 
Before the aerial rock on which I stood, 
The Eagle, hovering, wheeled to left and 

right, 
And hung with lingering wings over the 

flood. 
And startled with its yells the wide air's 

solitude. 

IX 

A shaft of light upon its wings de- 
scended, 
And every golden feather gleamed 

therein — 
Feather and scale inextricably blended. 
The Serpent's mailed and many-colored 

skin 
Shone through the plumes its coils were 

twined within 
By many a swollen and knotted fold, 

and high 
And far, the neck receding lithe and 

thin. 
Sustained a crested head, which warily 
Shifted and glanced before the Eagle's 

steadfast eye. 



Around, around, in ceaseless circles 

wheeling 
With clang of wings and scream, the 

Eagle sailed 
Incessantly — sometimes on high con- 
cealing 
Its lessening orbs, sometimes as if it 

failed, 
Drooped through the air; and still it 

shrieked and wailed. 
And casting back its eager head, with 

beak 
And talon unremittingly assailed 
The wreathed Serpent, who did ever seek 
Upon his enemy's heart a mortal wound to 

wreak. 

XI 

What life, what power, was kindled and 
arose 

Within the sphere of that appalling fray! 

For, from the encounter of those won- 
drous foes, 

A vapor like the sea's suspended spray 



CANTO FIRST 



53 



Hung gathered ; in the void air, far 
away, 

Floated the shattered plumes ; bright 
scales did leap, 

Where'er the Eagle's talons made their 
way, 

Like sparks into the darkness ; — as they 
sweep, 
Blood stains the snowy foam of the tumul- 
tuous deep. 

XII 

Swift chances in that combat — many a 

check, 
And many a change, a dark and wild 

turmoil! 
Sometimes the Snake around his enemy's 

neck 
Locked in stiff rings hie adamantine 

coil. 
Until the Eagle, faint with pain and 

toil, 
Remitted his strong flight, and near the 

sea 
Languidly fluttered, hopeless so to foil 
His adversary, who then reared on high 
His red and burning crest, radiant with 

victory. 

XIII 

Then on the white edge of the bursting 

surge. 
Where they had sunk together, would 

the Snake 
Relax his suffocating grasp, and scourge 
The wind with his wild writhings; for, 

to break 
That chain of torment, the vast bird would 

shake 
The strength of his unconquerable wings 
As in despair, and with his sinewy neck 
Dissolve in sudden shock those linked 
rings — , 
Then soar, as swift as smoke from a vol- 
cano springs. 

XIV 

Wile baffled wile, and strength encoun- 
tered strength, 
Thus long, but unprevailing. The event 
Of that portentous fight appeared at 

length. 
Until the lamp of day was almost spent 
It had endured, when lifeless, stark and 
rent, I 



Hung high that mighty Serpent, and at 

last 
Fell to the sea, while o'er the continent 
With clang of wings and scream the 

Eagle passed. 
Heavily borne away on the exhausted blast 

XV 

And with it fled the tempest, so that 
ocean 

And earth and sky shone through the 
atmosphere; 

Only, 't was strange to see the red com- 
motion 

Of waves like mountains o'er the sinking 
sphere 

Of sunset sweep, and their fierce roar to 
hear 

Amid the calm ; down the steep path I 
wound 

To the sea-shore — the evening was most 
clear 

And beautiful, and there the sea I found 
Calm as a cradled child in dreamless slum- 
ber bound. 

There was a Woman, beautiful as morn- 
ing, 

Sitting beneath the rocks upon the sand 

Of the waste sea — fair as one flower 
adorning 

An icy wilderness; each delicate hand 

Lay crossed upon her bosom, and the 
band 

Of her dark hair had fall'n, and so sue 
sate 

Looking upon the waves ; on the bare 
strand 

Upon the sea-mark a small boat did wait. 
Fair as herself, like Love by Hope left 
desolate. 

XVII 

It seemed that this fair Shape had looked 
upon 

That unimaginable fight, and now 

That her sweet eyes were weary of the 
sim, 

As brightly it illustrated her woe; 

For in the tears, which silently to flow 

Paused not, its lustre hung: she, watch- 
ing aye 

The foam-wreaths w^hich the faint tide 
wove below 



54 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Upon the spangled sands, groaned heav- 

ily, 

And after every groan looked up over the 
sea. 

XVIII 

And when she saw the wounded Serpent 

make 
His path between the waves, her lips 

grew pale, 
Parted and quivered; the tears ceased to 

break 
From her immovable eyes; no voice of 

wail 
Escaped her; but she rose, and on the 

gale 
Loosening her star -bright robe and 

shadowy hair. 
Poured forth her voice; the caverns of 

the vale 
That opened to the ocean, caught it there. 
And filled with silver sounds the overflow- 
ing air. 

XIX 

She spake in language whose strange 

melody 
Might not belong to earth. I heard alone 
What made its music more melodious 

be. 
The pity and the love of every tone; 
But to the Snake those accents sweet 

were known 
His native tongue and hers; nor did he 

beat 
The hoar spray idly then, but winding on 
Through the green shadows of the waves 

that meet 
Near to the shore, did pause beside her 

snowy feet. 

XX 

Then on the sands the Woman sate 

again. 
And wept and clasped her hands, and, all 

between. 
Renewed the unintelligible strain 
Of her melodious voice and eloquent 

mien ; 
And she unveiled her bosom, and the 

green 
And glancing shadows of the sea did 

play 
O'er its marmoreal depth — one moment 

seen, 



For ere the next, the Serpent did obey 
Her voice, and, coiled in rest, in her em» 
brace it lay. 

XXI 

Then she arose, and smiled on me with 
eyes 

Serene yet sorrowing, like that planet 
fair, 

While yet the daylight lingereth in the 
skies. 

Which cleaves with arrowy beams the 
dark-red air. 

And said : * To grieve is wise, but the de- 
spair 

Was weak and vain which led thee here 
from sleep. 

This shalt thou know, and more, if thou 
dost dare 

With me and with this Serpent, o'er the 
deep, 
A voyage divine and strange, companion- 
ship to keep.' 

XXII 

Her voice was like the wildest, saddest 

tone. 
Yet sweet, of some loved voice heard 

long ago. 
I wept. Shall this fair woman all alone 
Over the sea with that fierce Serpent go ? 
His head is on her heart, and who can 

know 
How soon he may devour his feeble 

prey ? — 
Such were my thoughts, when the tide 

'gan to flow ; 
And that strange boat like the moon's 

shade did sway 
Amid reflected stars that in the waters lay. 

XXIII 

A boat of rare device, which had no 
sail 

But its own curved prow of thin moon- 
stone. 

Wrought like a web of texture fine and 
frail. 

To catch those gentlest winds which are 
not known 

To breathe, but by the steady speed alone 

With which it cleaves the sparkling sea; 
and now 

We are embarked — the mountains bang 
and frown 



CANTO FIRST 



55 



Over the starry deep that gleams below 
A vast and dim expanse, as o'er the waves 
we go. 

XXIV 

And as we sailed, a strange and awful tale 
That Woman told, like such mysterious 

dream 
As makes the slumberer's cheek with 

wonder pale ! 
'T was midnight, and around, a shoreless 

stream, 
Wide ocean rolled, when that majestic 

theme 
Shrined in her heart found utterance, and 

she bent 
Her looks on mine; those eyes a kin- 
dling beam 
Of love divine into my spirit sent. 
And, ere her lips could move, made the air 

eloquent. 

XXV 

* Speak not to me, but hear ! much shalt 
thou learn. 

Much must remain unthought, and more 
untold. 

In the dark Future's ever-flowing urn. 

Know then that from the depth of ages 
old 

Two Powers o'er mortal things dominion 
hold. 

Ruling the world with a divided lot. 

Immortal, all-pervading, manifold, 

Twin Genii, equal Gods — when life and 
thought 
Sprang forth, they burst the womb of in- 
essential Nought. 

XXVI 

' The earliest dweller of the world alone 
Stood on the verge of chaos. Lo ! afar 
O'er the wide wild abyss two meteors 

shone, 
Sprung from the depth of its tempestu- 
ous jar — 
A blood-red Comet and the Morning Star 
Mingling their beams in combat. As he 

stood 
All thoughts within his mind waged mu- 
tual war 
In dreadful sympathy — when to the 
flood 
That fair Star fell, he turned and shed his 
brother's blood. 



XXVII 

* Thus Evil triumphed, and the Spirit of 
Evil, 
One Power of many shapes which none 

may know, 
One Shape of many names; the Fiend 

did revel 
In victory, reigning o'er a world of woe, 
For the new race of man went to and fro, 
Famished and homeless, loathed and 

loathing, wild. 
And hating good — for his immortal foe. 
He changed from starry shape, beauteous 
and mild. 
To a dire Snake, with man and beast un- 
reconciled. 



XXVIII 

' The darkness lingering o'er the dawn of 

things 
Was Evil's breath and life ; this made 

him strong 
To soar aloft with overshadowing wings ; 
And the great Spirit of Good did creep 

among 
The nations of mankind, and every tongue 
Cursed and blasphemed him as he passed; 

for none 
Knew good from evil, though their names 

were hung 
In mockery o'er the fane where many a 

groan. 
As King, and Lord, and God, the conquer- 
ing Fiend did own. 

XXIX 

' The Fiend, whose name was Legion 

Death, Decay, 
Earthquake and Blight, and Want, anc' 

Madness pale, 
Winged and wan diseases, an array 
Numerous as leaves that strew the au- 
tumnal gale; 
Poison, a snake in flowers, beneath the 

veil 
Of food and mirth, hiding his mortal 

head; 
And, without whom all these might 

nought avail. 
Fear, Hatred, Faith and Tyranny, who 

spread 
Those subtle nets which snare the living 

and the dead. 



56 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



XXX 

* His spirit is their power, and they his 

slaves 
In air, and light, and thought, and lan- 
guage dwell; 
And keep their state from palaces to 

graves, 
In all resorts of men — invisible. 
But when, in ebon mirror, Nightmare fell. 
To tyrant or impostor bids tliem rise. 
Black winged demon - forms — whom, 

from the hell. 
His reign and dwelling beneath nether 
skies. 
He loosens to their dark and blasting min- 
istries. 

XXXI 

* In the world's youth his empire was as 

firm 
As its foundations. Soon the Spirit of 

Good, 
Though in the likeness of a loathsome 

worm, 
Sprang from the billows of the formless 

flood, 
Which shrank and fled; and with that 

Fiend of blood 
Renewed the doubtful war. Thrones 

then first shook, 
And earth's immense and trampled mul- 
titude 
In hope on their own powers began to 

look. 
And Fear, the demon pale, his sanguine 

shrine forsook. 

XXXII 

* Then Greece arose, and to its bards and 

sages. 
In dream, the golden - pinioned Genii 

came. 
Even where they slept amid the night 

of ages, 
Steeping their hearts in the divinest flame 
Which thy breath kindled. Power of 

holiest name! 
And oft in cycles since, when darkness 

gave 
New weapons to thy foe, their sunlike 

fame 
Upon the combat shone — a light to save, 
Like Paradise spread forth beyond the 

shadowy grave. 



XXXIII 

' Such is this conflict — when mankind 

doth strive 
With its oppressors in a strife of blood, 
Or when free thoughts, like lightnings, 

are alive. 
And in each bosom of the multitude 
Justice and truth with custom's hydra 

brood 
Wage silent war; when priests and 

kings dissemble 
In smiles or frowns their fierce disqui- 
etude. 
When round pure hearts a host of hopes 

assemble. 
The Snake and Eagle meet — the world's 

foundations tremble! 



XXXIV 

' Thou hast beheld that fight — when to 
thy home 

Thou dost return, steep not its hearth 
in tears; 

Though thou mayst hear that earth is 
now become 

The tyrant's garbage, which to his com- 
peers, 

The vile reward of their dishonored 
years. 

He will dividing give. The victor 
Fiend 

Omnipotent of yore, now quails, and 
fears 

His triumph dearly won, which soon will 
lend 
An impulse swift and sure to his approach- 
ing end. 

XXXV 

* List, stranger, list! mine is an human 

form 
Like that thou wearest — touch me — 

shrink not now! 
My hand thou feel'st is not a ghost's, 

but warm 
With human blood. 'Twas many years 

ago, 
Since first my thirsting soul aspired to 

know 
The secrets of this wondrous world, 

when deep 
My heart was pierced with sympathy for 

woe 



CANTO FIRST 



57 



Which could not be mine own, and 
thought did keep 
In dream unnatural watch beside an in- 
fant's sleep. 

XXXVI 

* Woe could not be mine own, since far 

from men 

I dwelt, a free and happy orphan child, 

By the sea-shore, in a deep mountain glen ; 

And near the waves and through the for- 
ests wild 

I roamed, to storm and darkness recon- 
ciled; 

For I was calm while tempest shook the 
sky. 

But when the breathless heavens in 
beauty smiled, 

I wept sweet tears, yet too tumultuously 
For peace, and clasped my hands aloft in 
ecstasy. 

XXXVII 

' These were forebodings of my fate. Be- 
fore 
A woman's heart beat in my virgin 

breast. 
It had been nurtured in divinest lore; 
A dying poet gave me books, and blessed 
With wild but holy talk the sweet unrest 
In which I watched him as he died away; 
A youth with hoary hair, a fleeting guest 
Of our lone mountains; and this lore did 
sway 
My spirit like a storm, contending there 
alway. 

XXXVIII 

* Thus the dark tale which history doth 

unfold 

I knew, but not, methinks, as others 
know. 

For they weep not; and Wisdom had 
unrolled 

The clouds which hide the gulf of mortal 
woe; 

To few can she that warning vision show; 

For I loved all things with intense devo- 
tion. 

So that when Hope's deep source in full- 
est flow. 

Like earthquake did uplift the stagnant 
ocean 
Of human thoughts, mine shook beneath 
the wide emotion. 



XXXIX 

* When first the living blood through all 

these veins 
Kindled a thought in sense, great France 

sprang forth, 
And seized, as if to break, the ponderous 

chains 
Which bind in woe the nations of the 

earth. 
I saw, and started from my cottage 

hearth; 
And to the clouds and waves in tameless 

gladness 
Shrieked, till they caught immeasurable 

mirth. 
And laughed in light and music: soon 

sweet madness 
Was poured upon my heart, a soft and 

thrilling sadness. 



XL 

* Deep slumber fell on me : — my dreams 

were fire. 
Soft and delightful thoughts did rest and 

hover 
Like shadows o'er my brain ; and strange 

desire. 
The tempest of a passion, raging over 
My tranquil soul, its depths with light 

did cover. 
Which passed; and calm, and darkness, 

sweeter far. 
Came — then I loved; but not a human 

lover ! 
For when I rose from sleep, the Morning 

Star 
Shone through the woodbine wreaths which 

round my casement were. 

XLI 

' 'T was like an eye which seemed to smile 
on me. 

I watched, till by the sun made pale it 
sank 

Under the billows of the heaving sea; 

But from its beams deep love my spirit 
drank. 

And to my brain the boundless world 
now shrank 

Into one thought — one image — yes, 
forever ! 

Even like the dayspring, poured on va- 
pors dank, 



58 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



The beams of that one Star did shoot 
and quiver 
Through my benighted mind — and were 
extinguished never. 

XLII 

*The day passed thus. At night, me- 
thought, in dream 

A shape of speechless beauty did ap- 
pear; 

It stood like light on a careering stream 

Of golden clouds which shook the atmo- 
sphere; 

A winged youth, his radiant brow did 
wear 

The Morning Star; a wild dissolving 
bliss 

Over my frame he breathed, approach- 
ing near, 

And bent his eyes of kindling tender- 
ness 
Near mine, and on my lips impressed a 
lingering kiss, 

XLIII 

<And said: " A Spirit loves thee, mortal 

maiden ; 
How wilt thou prove thy worth ? " Then 

joy and sleep 
Together fled; my soul was deeply 

laden, 
And to the shore I went to muse and 

weep; 
But as I moved, over my heart did creep 
A joy less soft, but more profound and 

strong 
Than my sweet dream; and it forbade to 

keep 
The path of the sea-shore; that Spirit's 

tongue 
Seemed whispering in my heart, and bore 

my steps along. 

XLIV 

* How, to that vast and peopled city led, 
Which was a field of holy warfare 

then, 
I walked among the dying and the dead, 
And shared in fearless deeds with evil 

men, 
Calm as an angel in the dragon's den; 
How I braved death for liberty and 

truth. 
And spurned at peace, and power, and 

fame ; and wht n 



Those hopes had lost the glory of their 
youth. 
How sadly I returned — might move the 
hearer's ruth. 

XLV 

' Warm tears throng fast! the tale may 
not be said. 

Know then that, when this grief had 
been subdued, 

I was not left, like others, cold and dead ; 

The Spirit whom I loved in solitude 

Sustained his child; the tempest-shaken 
wood. 

The waves, the fountains, and the hush 
of night — 

These were his voice, and well I under- 
stood 

His smile divine, when the calm sea was 
bright 
With silent stars, and Heaven was breath- 
less with delight. 

XLVI 

' In lonely glens, amid the roar of rivers. 
When the dim nights were moonless, 

have I known 
Joys which no tongue can tell ; my pale 

lip quivers 
When thought revisits them : — know 

thou alone. 
That, after many wondrous years were 

flown, 
I was awakened by a shriek of woe; 
And over me a mystic robe was thrown 
By viewless hands, and a bright Star did 

glow 
Before my steps — the Snake then met his 

mortal foe.' 

XLVII 

' Thou fearest not then the Serpent on thy 

heart ? ' 
' Fear it ! ' she said, with brief and pas- 
sionate cry. 
And spake no more. That silence made 

me start — 
I looked, and we were sailing pleasantly, 
Swift as a cloud between the sea and sky, 
Beneath the rising moon seen far away ; 
Mountains of ice, like sapphire, piled on 

high. 
Hemming the horizon round, in silence lay 
On the still waters — these we did ap- 
proach alway. 



CANTO FIRST 



59 



XLVIII 

And swift and swifter grew the vessel's 

motion, 
So that a dizzy trance fell on my brain, — 
Wild music woke me; we bad passed the 

ocean 
Which girds the pole, Nature's remotest 

reign; 
And we glode fast o'er a pellucid plain 
Of waters, azure with the noontide day. 
Ethereal mountains shone around; a 

Fane 
Stood in the midst, girt by green isles 

which lay 
On the blue sunny deep, resplendent far 

away. 

XLIX 

It was a Temple, such as mortal hand 
Has never built, nor ecstasy, nor dream 
Reared in the cities of enchanted land; 
'T was likest Heaven, ere yet day's purple 

stream 
Ebbs o'er the western forest, while the 

gleam 
Of the unrisen moon among the clouds 
Is gathering — when with many a golden 

beam 
The thronging constellations rush in 
crowds. 
Paving with fire the sky and the marmo- 
real floods. 

L 

Like what may be conceived of this vast 
dome, 

When from the depths which thought 
can seldom pierce 

Genius beholds it rise, his native home, 

Girt by the deserts of the Universe; 

Yet, nor in painting's light, or mightier 
verse, 

Or sculpture's marble language can in- 
vest 

That shape to mortal sense — such 
glooms immerse 

That incommunicable sight, and rest 
Upon the laboring brain and over-burdened 
breast. 

LI 

Winding among the lawny islands fair, 
Whose blosmy forests starred the shad- 
owy deep. 
The wingless boat paused where an ivory 
stair 



Its fretwork in the crystal sea did steep, 
Encircling that vast Fane's aerial heap. 
We disembarked, and through a portal 

wide 
We passed, whose roof of moonstone 

carved did keep 
A glimmering o'er the forms on every 

side. 
Sculptures like life and thought, immovable, 

deep-eyed. 

LII 

We came to a vast hall, whose glorious 

roof 
Was diamond which had drunk the 

lightning's sheen 
In darkness and now poured it through 

the woof 
Of spell-inwoven clouds hung there to 

screen 
Its blinding splendor — through such veil 

was seen 
That work of subtlest power, divine and 

rare; 
Orb above orb, with starry shapes be- 
tween, 
And horned moons, and meteors strange 

and fair, 
On night-black columns poised — one hoi' 

low hemisphere! 

LIII 

Ten thousand columns in that quivering 

light 
Distinct, between whose shafts wound far 

away 
The long and labyrinthine aisles, more 

bright 
With their own radiance than the Heaven 

of Day; 
And on the jasper walls around there lay 
Paintings, the poesy of mightiest thought, 
Which did the Spirit's history display; 
A tale of passionate change, divinely 

taught, 
Which, in their wingM dance, unconscious 

Genii wrought. 

Liv 

Beneath there sate on many a sapphire 
throne 

The Great who had departed from man- 
kind, 

A mighty Senate; — some, whose white 
hair shone 



6o 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Like mountain snow, mild, beautiful and 

blind; 
Some, female forms, whose gestures 

beamed with mind; 
And ardent youths, and children bright 

and fair; 
And some had lyres whose strings were 

intertwined 
With pale and clinging flames, which 

ever there 
Waked faint yet thrilling sounds that 

pierced the crystal air. 

LV 

One seat was vacant in the midst, a throne, 
Reared on a pyramid like sculptured 

flame. 
Distinct with circling steps which rested 

on 
Their own deep fire. Soon as the Woman 

came 
Into that hall, she shrieked the Spirit's 

name 
And fell; and vanished slowly from the 

sight. 
Darkness arose from her dissolving 

frame, — 
Which, gathering, filled that dome of 

woven light. 
Blotting its sphered stars with supernatural 

night. 

LVI 

Then first two glittering lights were seen 

to glide 
In circles on the amethystine floor. 
Small serpent eyes trailing from side to 

side, 
Like meteors on a river's grassy shore; 
They round each other rolled, dilating 

more 
And more — then rose, commingling into 

one, 
One clear and mighty planet hanging 

o'er 
A cloud of deepest shadow which was 

thrown 
Athwart the glowing steps and the crystal- 
line throne. 

LVI I 

The cloud which rested on that cone of 

flame 
Was cloven; beneath the planet sate a 

Form, 



Fairer than tongue can speak or thought 
may frame. 

The radiance of whose limbs rose-like 
and warm 

Flowed forth, and did with softest light 
inform 

The shadowy dome, the sculptures and 
the state 

Of those assembled shapes — with cling- 
ing charm 

Sinking upon their hearts and mine. He 
sate 
Majestic yet most mild, calm yet compas- 
sionate. 

LVIII 

Wonder and joy a passing faintness threw 
Over my brow — a hand supported me. 
Whose touch was magic strength; an eye 

of blue 
Looked into mine, like moonlight, sooth- 
ingly; 
And a voice said, ' Thou must a listener be 
This day; two mighty Spirits now return, 
Like birds of calm, from the world's 

raging sea; 
They pour fresh light from Hope's im- 
mortal urn; 
A tale of human power — despair not — 
list and learn! 

LIX 

I looked, and lo! one stood forth elo- 
quently. 

His eyes were dark and deep, and the 
clear brow 

Which shadowed them was like the 
morning sky. 

The cloudless Heaven of Spring, when 
in their flow 

Through the bright air the soft winds as 
they blow 

Wake the green world ; his gestures did 
obey 

The oracular mind that made his fea- 
tures glow, 

And where his curved lips half open lay. 
Passion's divinest stream had made impetu- 
ous way. 

LX 

Beneath the darkness of his outspread 

hair 
He stood thus beautiful; but there was 

One 



CANTO SECOND 



6i 



Who sate beside him like his shadow 

there, 
And held his hand — far lovelier; she 

was known 
To be thus fair by the few lines alone 
Which through her floating locks and 

gathered cloke, 
Glances of soul-dissolving glory, shone; 
None else beheld her eyes — in him they 

woke 
Memories which found a tongue, as thus he 

silence broke. 

CANTO SECOND 
I 
The star-light smile of children, the 

sweet looks 
Of women, the fair breast from which I 

fed. 
The murmur of the unreposing brooks, 
And the green light which, shifting over- 
head, 
Some tangled bower of vines around me 

shed, 
The shells on the sea-sand, and the wild 

flowers, 
The lamp - light through the rafters 

cheerly spread 
And on the twining flax — in life's young 

hours 
These sights and sounds did nurse my 

spirit's folded powers. 

II 

In Argolis, beside the echoing sea, 
Such impulses within my mortal frame 
Arose, and they were dear to memory. 
Like tokens of the dead; but others 

came 
Soon, in another shape — the wondrous 

fame 
Of the past world, the vital words and 

deeds 
Of minds whom neither time nor change 

can tame. 
Traditions dark and old whence evil 

creeds 
Start forth and whose dim shade a stream 

of poison feeds. 

Ill 

I heard, as all have heard, the various 

story 
Of human life, and wept unwilling tears. 



Feeble historians of its shame and glory, 
False disputants on all its hopes and 

fears, 
Victims who worshipped ruin, chroniclers 
Of daily scorn, and slaves who loathed 

their state, 
Yet, flattering Power, had given its 

ministers 
A throne of judgment in the grave — 

't was fate. 
That among such as these my youth should 

seek its mate. 

IV 

The land in which I lived by a fell 

bane 
Was withered up. Tyrants dwelt side 

by side. 
And stabled in our homes, until the chain 
Stifled the captive's cry, and to abide 
That blasting curse men had no shame. 

All vied 
In evil, slave and despot; fear with lust 
Strange fellowship through mutual hate 

had tied. 
Like two dark serpents tangled in the 

dust, 
Which on the paths of men their mingling 

poison thrust. 



Earth, our bright home, its mountains 
and its waters. 

And the ethereal shapes which are sus- 
pended 

Over its green expanse, and those fair 
daughters, 

The clouds, of Sun and Ocean, who have 
blended 

The colors of the air since first extended 

It cradled the young world, none wan- 
dered forth 

To see or feel; a darkness had descended 

On every heart; the light which shows 
its worth 
Must among gentle thoughts and fearless 
take its birth. 

VI 

This vital world, this home of happy 
spirits. 

Was as a dungeon to my blasted kind; 

All that despair from murdered hope in- 
herits 



62 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



They sought, and, in their helpless misery 

blind, 
A deeper prison and heavier chains did 

find, 
And stronger tyrants: — a dark gulf 

before, 
The realm of a stern Ruler, yawned; 

behind, 
Terror and Time conflicting drove, and 

bore 
On their tempestuous flood the shrieking 

wretch from shore. 

VII 

Out of that Ocean's wrecks had Guilt 
and Woe 

Framed a dark dwelling for their home- 
less thought, 

And, starting at the ghosts which to and 
fro 

Glide o'er its dim and gloomy strand, had 
brought 

The worship thence which they each 
other taught. 

Well might men loathe their life! well 
might they turn 

Even to the ills again from which they 
sought 

Such refuge after death! — well might 
they learn 
To gaze on this fair world with hopeless un- 
concern ! 

VIII 

For they all pined in bondage; body and 
soul. 

Tyrant and slave, victim and torturer, 
bent 

Before one Power, to which supreme 
control 

Over their will by their own weakness 
lent 

Made all its many names omnipotent; 

All symbols of things evil, all divine; 

And hymns of blood or mockery, which 
rent 

The air from all its fanes, did intertwine 
Imposture's impious toils round each dis- 
cordant shrine. 

IX 

I heard, as all have heard, life's various 

story. 
And in no careless heart transcribed the 

tale: 



But, from the sneers of men who had 

grown hoary 
In shame and scorn, from groans of 

crowds made pale 
By famine, from a mother's desolate wail 
O'er her polluted child, from innocent 

blood 
Poured on the earth, and brows anxious 

and pale 
With the heart's warfare, did I gather 

food 
To feed my many thoughts — a tameless 

multitude! 

X 

I wandered through the wrecks of days 

departed 
Far by the desolated shore, when even 
O'er the still sea and jagged islets darted 
The light of moonrise ; in the northern 

Heaven, 
Among the clouds near the horizon 

driven, 
The mountains lay beneath one planet 

pale; 
Around me broken tombs and columns 

riven 
Looked vast in twilight, and the sorrow- 
ing gale 
Waked in those ruins gray its everlasting 

wail! 

XI 

I knew not who had framed these won- 
ders then. 

Nor had I heard the story of their deeds; 

But dwellings of a race of mightier 
men. 

And monuments of less ungentle creeds 

Tell their own tale to him who wiselj 
heeds 

The language which they speak; and 
now, to me, 

The moonlight making pale the blooming 
weeds. 

The bright stars shining in the breathless 
sea. 
Interpreted those scrolls of mortal mys- 
tery. 

XII 

Such man has been, and such may yet 

become! 
Ay, wiser, greater, gentler even than 

they 



CANTO SECOND 



63 



Who on the fragments of yon shattered 
dome 

Have stamped the sign of power! I felt 
the sway 

Of the vast stream of ages bear away 

My floating thoughts — my heart beat 
loud and fast — 

Even as a storm let loose beneath the 
ray 

Of the still moon, my spirit onward 
passed 
Beneath truth's steady beams upon its tu- 
mult cast. 

XIII 

It shall be thus no more! too long, too 

long, 
Sons of the glorious dead, have ye lain 

bound 
In darkness and in ruin! Hope is strong, 
Justice and Truth their winged child 

have found! 
Awake! arise! until the mighty sound 
Of your career shall scatter in its gust 
The thrones of the oppressor, and the 

ground 
Hide the last altar's unregarded dust. 
Whose Idol has so long betrayed your im- 
pious trust. 

XIV 

It must be so — I will arise and waken 
The multitude, and like a sulphurous 

hill, 
Which on a sudden from its snows has 

shaken 
The swoon of ages, it shall burst, and fill 
The world with cleansing fire; it must, it 

will — 
It may not be restrained ! — and who 

shall stand 
Amid the rocking earthquake steadfast 

still 
But Laon ? on high Freedom's desert 

land 
A tower whose marble walls the leagued 

storms withstand! 

XV 

One summer night, in commune with the 

hope 
Thus deeply fed, amid those ruins gray 
I watched beneath the dark sky's starry 

cope; 
And ever from that hour upon me lay 



The burden of this hope, and night or 

day, 
In vision or in dream, clove to my breast; 
Among mankind, or when gone far away 
To the lone shores and mountains, 't was 

a guest 
Which followed where I fled, and watched 

when I did rest. 

XVI 

These hopes found words through which 

my spirit sought 
To weave a bondage of such sympathy 
As might create some response to the 

thought 
Which ruled me now — and as the vapors 

lie 
Bright in the outspread morning's radi- 
ancy. 
So were these thoughts invested with the 

light 
Of language; and all bosoms made reply 
On which its lustre streamed, whene'er 

it might 
Through darkness wide and deep those 

tranced spirits smite. 

XVII 

Yes, many an eye with dizzy tears was 

dim, 
And oft I thought to clasp my own heart's 

brother. 
When I could feel the listener's senses 

swim, 
And hear his breath its own swift gasp- 

ings smother 
Even as my words evoked them — and 

another, 
And yet another, I did fondly deem. 
Felt that we all were sons of one great 

mother; 
And the cold truth such sad reverse did 

seem 
As to awake in grief from some delightful 

dream. 

XVIII 
Yes, oft beside the ruined labyrinth 
Which skirts the hoary caves of the 

green deep 
Did Laon and his friend on one gray 

plinth, 
Round whose worn base the wild waves 

hiss and leap. 
Resting at eve, a lofty converse keep; 



64 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



And that this friend was false may now 

be said 
t/aimly — that he like other men could 

weep 
Tears which are lies, and could betray 

ana spread 
Jnares for that guileless heart which for 

his own had bled. 

XIX 

Then, had no great aim recompensed my 

sorrow, 
1 must have sought dark respite from its 

stress 
In dreamless rest, in sleep that sees no 

morrow — 
For to tread life's dismaying wilderness 
Without one smile to cheer, one voice to 

bless, 
Amid the snares and scoffs of human- 
kind, 
Is hard — but I betrayed it not, nor less 
With love that scorned return sought to 

unbind 
The interwoven clouds which make its 

wisdom blind. 

XX 

With deathless minds, which leave where 
they have passed 

A path of light, my soul communion 
knew. 

Till from that glorious intercourse, at 
last, 

As from a mine of magic store, I drew 

Words which were weapons; round my 
heart there grew 

The adamantine armor of their power; 

And from my fancy wings of golden hue 

Sprang forth — yet not alone from wis- 
dom's tower, 
A. minister of truth, these plumes young 
Laon bore. 

XXI 

An orphan with my parents lived, whose 

eyes 
Were lodestars of delight, which drew 

me home 
When I might wander forth; nor did I 

prize 
Aught human thing beneath Heaven's 

mighty dome 
Beyond this child; so when sad hours 

were come, 



And baffled hope like ice still clung to 

me. 
Since kin were cold, and friends had now 

become 
Heartless and false, I turned from all 

to be, 
Cythna, the only source of tears and smiles 

to thee. 

XXII 

What wert thou then ? A child most 
infantine. 

Yet wandering far beyond that innocent 
age 

In all but its sweet looks and mien di- 
vine ; 

Even then, methought, with the world's 
tyrant rage 

A patient warfare thy young heart did 
wage, 

When those soft eyes of scarcely con- 
scious thought 

Some tale or thine own fancies would 
engage 

To overflow with tears, or converse 
fraught 
With passion o'er their depths its fleeting 
light had wrought. 

XXIII 

She moved upon this earth a shape of 

brightness, 
A power, that from its objects scarcely 

drew 
One impulse of her being — in her light- 
ness 
Most like some radiant cloud of morning 

dew 
Which wanders through the waste air's 

pathless blue 
To nourish some far desert; she did 

seem 
Beside me, gathering beauty as she grew, 
Like the bright shade of some immortal 

dream 
Which walks, when tempest sleeps, the 

wave of life's dark stream. 

XXIV 

As mine own shadow was this child 

to me, 
A second self, far dearer and more fair. 
Which clothed in undissolving radiancy 
All those steep paths which languor and 

despair 



CANTO SECOND 



65 



Of human things had made so dark and 
bare, 

But which I trod alone — nor, till be- 
reft 

Of friends, and overcome by lonely care, 

Knew I what solace for that loss was 
left, 
Though by a bitter wound my trusting 
heart was cleft. 

XXV 

Once she was dear, now she was all I 

had 
To love in human life — this playmate 

sweet, 
This child of twelve years old. So she 

was made 
My sole associate, and her willing feet 
Wandered with mine where Earth and 

Ocean meet. 
Beyond the aerial mountains whose vast 

cells 
The unreposing billows ever beat. 
Through forests wild and old, and lawny 

dells 
Where boughs of incense droop over the 

emerald wells. 

XXVI 

And warm and light I felt her clasping 

hand 
When twined in mine; she followed 

where I went. 
Through the lone paths of our immortal 

land. 
It had no waste bat some memorial lent 
Which strung me to my toil — some 

monument 
Vital with mind; then Cythna by my 

side. 
Until the bright and beaming day were 

spent. 
Would rest, with looks entreating to 

abide, 
Too earnest and too sweet ever to be de- 
nied. 

XXVII 

And soon I could not have refused her. 

Thus 
Forever, day and night, we two were 

ne'er 
Parted but when brief sleep divided us; 
And, when the pauses of the lulling air 
Of noon beside the sea had made a lair 



For her soothed senses, in my arms she 

slept. 
And I kept watch over her slumbers 

there. 
While, as the shifting visions over her 

swept, 
Amid her innocent rest by turns she smiled 

and wept. 

XXVIII 

And in the murmur of her dreams was 

heard 
Sometimes the name of Laon. Suddenly 
She would arise, and, like the secret bird 
Whom sunset wakens, fill the shore and 

sky 
With her sweet accents, a wild mel- 
ody, — 
Hymns which my soul had woven to 

Freedom, strong 
The source of passion whence they rose 

to be; 
Triumphant strains which, like a spirit's 

tongue. 
To the enchanted waves that child of glory 

sung — 

XXIX 

Her white arms lifted through the shad- 
owy stream 
Of her loose hair. Oh, excellently great 
Seemed to me then my purpose, the vast 

theme 
Of those impassioned songs, when Cythna 

sate 
Amid the calm which rapture doth cre- 
ate 
After its tumult, her heart vibrating. 
Her spirit o'er the Ocean's floating state 
From her deep eyes far wandering, on 
the wing 
Of visions that were mine, beyond its ut- 
most spring ! 

XXX 

For, before Cythna loved it, had my song 
Peopled with thoughts the boundless uni- 
verse, 
A mighty congregation, which were 

strong. 
Where'er they trod the darkness, to dis- 
perse 
The cloud of that unutterable curse 
Which clings upon mankind; all things 
became 



66 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Slaves to my holy and heroic verse, 
Earth, sea and sky, the planets, life and 

fame 
And fate, or whate'er else binds the world's 

wondrous frame. 

XXXI 

And this beloved child thus felt the sway 

Of my conceptions, gathering like a 
cloud 

The very wind on which it rolls away; 

Hers too were all my thoughts, ere yet 
endowed 

With music and with light their foun- 
tains flowed 

In poesy; and her still and earnest face, 

Pallid with feelings which intensely 
glowed 

Within, was turned on mine with speech- 
less grace, 
Watching the hopes which there her heart 
had learned to trace. 

XXXII 

In me, communion with this purest being 
Kindled intenser zeal, and made me wise 
In knowledge, which in hers mine own 

mind seeing 
Left in the human world few mysteries. 
How without fear of evil or disguise 
Was Cythna ! what a spirit strong and 

mild. 
Which death or pain or peril could de- 
spise, 
Yet melt in tenderness ! what genius 
wild. 
Yet mighty, was enclosed within one simple 
child ! 

XXXIII 

New lore was this. Old age with its gray 
hair. 

And wrinkled legends of unworthy 
things. 

And icy sneers, is nought: it cannot dare 

To burst the chains which life forever 
flings 

On the entangled soul's aspiring wings; 

So is it cold and cruel, and is made 

The careless slave of that dark Power 
which brings 

Evil, like blight, on man, who, still be- 
trayed, 
Laughs o'er the grave in which his living 
hopes are laid, 



XXXIV 

Nor are the strong and the severe to keep 
The empire of the world. Thus Cythna 

taught 
Even in the visions of her eloquent sleep. 
Unconscious of the power through which 

she wrought 
The woof of such intelligible thought, 
As from the tranquil strength which 

cradled lay 
In her smile-peopled rest my spirit 

sought 
Why the deceiver and the slave has sway 
O'er heralds so divine of truth's arising 

day. 

XXXV 

Within that fairest form the female mind, 

Untainted by the poison clouds which 
rest 

On the dark world, a sacred home did 
find; 

But else from the wide earth's maternal 
breast 

Victorious Evil, which had dispossessed 

All native power, had those fair children 
torn. 

And made them slaves to soothe his vile 
unrest. 

And minister to lust its joys forlorn, 
Till they had learned to breathe the atmo- 
sphere of scorn. 

XXXVI 

This misery was but coldly felt, till she 

Became my only friend, who had endued 

My purpose with a wider sympathy. 

Thus Cythna mourned with me the servi- 
tude 

In which the half of humankind were 
mewed, 

Victims of lust and hate, the slaves of 
slaves; 

She mourned that grace and power were 
thrown as food 

To the hyena Lust, who, among graves. 
Over his loathed meal, laughing in agony, 
raves. 

XXXVII 

And I, still gazing on that glorious child, 
Even as these thoughts flushed o'er her: 

— ' Cythna sweet. 
Well with the world art thou unrecon- 

ciled; 



CANTO SECOND 



67 



Never will peace and human nature meet 
Till free and equal man and woman greet 
Domestic peace; and ere this power can 

make 
In human hearts its calm and holy seat, 
This slavery must be broken ' — as I 

spake, 
From Cythna's eyes a light of exultation 

brake. 

XXXVIII 

She replied earnestly : — 'It shall be 

mine, 
This task, — mine, Laon ! thou hast much 

to gain; 
Nor wilt thou at poor Cythna's pride re- 
pine. 
If she should lead a happy female train 
To meet thee over the rejoicing plain. 
When myriads at thy call shall throng 

around 
The Golden City.' — Then the child did 

strain 
My arm upon her tremulous heart, and 

wound 
Her own about my neck, till some reply 

she found. 

XXXIX 

I smiled, and spake not. — 'Wherefore 

dost thou smile 
At what I say ? Laon, I am not weak, 
And, though my cheek might become pale 

the while. 
With thee, if thou desirest, will I seek 
Through their array of banded slaves to 

wreak 
Ruin upon the tyrants. I had thought 
It was more hard to turn my unpractised 

cheek 
To scorn and shame, and this beloved 

spot 
And thee, O dearest friend, to leave and 

murmur not. 

XL 

* Whence came I what I am ? Thou, Laon, 
knowest 

How a young child should thus undaunted 
be; 

Methinks it is a power which thou be- 
stowest. 

Through which I seek, by most resem- 
bling thee, 



So to become most good, and great, and 

free; 
Yet, far beyond this Ocean's utmost roar, 
In towers and huts are many like to 

me. 
Who, could they see thine eyes, or feel 

such lore 
As I have learnt from them, like me would 

fear no more. 

XLI 

' Think 'st thou that I shall speak unskil- 

fully. 
And none will heed me ? I remember 

now 
How once a slave in tortures doomed to 

die 
Was saved because in accents sweet and 

low 
He sung a song his judge loved long 

ago, 
As he was led to death. All shall relent 
Who hear me ; tears as mine have flowed, 

shall flow; 
Hearts beat as mine now beats, with such 

intent 
As renovates the world; a will omnipotent! 

XLII 

' Yes, I will tread Pride's golden palaces, 
Through Penury's roofless huts and 

squalid cells 
Will I descend, where'er in abjectness 
Woman with some vile slave her tyrant 

dwells; 
There with the music of thine own sweet 

spells 
Will disenchant the captives, and will 

pour 
For the despairing, from the crystal wells 
Of thy deep spirit, reason's mighty lore. 
And power shall then abound, and hope 

arise once more. 

XLIII 
* Can man be free if woman be a slave ? 

Chain one who lives, and breathes this 
boundless air, 

To the corruption of a closed grave! 

Can they, whose mates are beasts con- 
demned to bear 

Scorn heavier far than toil or anguish, 
dare 

To trample their oppressors ? In theii 
home. 



68 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Among their babes, thou knowest a curse 
would wear 

The shape of woman — hoary Crime 
would come 
Behind, and Fraud rebuild Religion's tot- 
tering dome. 

XLIV 

*I am a child: — I would not yet de- 
part. 
When I go forth alone, bearing the lamp 
Aloft which thou hast kindled in my 

heart, 
Millions of slaves from many a dungeon 

damp 
Shall leap in joy, as the benumbing 

cramp 
Of ages leaves their limbs. No ill may 

harm 
Thy Cythna ever. Truth its radiant 

stamp 
Has fixed, as an invulnerable charm. 
Upon her children's brow, dark Falsehood 

to disarm. 

XLV 

* Wait yet awhile for the appointed day. 
Thou wilt depart, and I with tears shall 

stand 
Watching thy dim sail skirt the ocean 

gray; 
Amid the dwellers of this lonely land 
I shall remain alone — and thy command 
Shall then dissolve the world's unquiet 

trance. 
And, multitudinous as the desert sand 
Borne on the storm, its millions shall ad- 
vance. 
Thronging round thee, the light of their 
deliverance. 

XLVI 

* Then, like the forests of some pathless 

mountain 
Which from remotest glens two warring 

winds 
Involve in fire which not the loosened 

fountain 
Of broadest floods might quench, shall 

all the kinds 
Of evil catch from our uniting minds 
The spark which must consume them; — 

Cythna then 
Will have cast off the impotence that 

binds 



Her childhood now, and through the 
paths of men 
Will pass, as the charmed bird that haunts 
the serpent's den. 

XLVII 

* We part! — Laon, I must dare, nor 

tremble. 
To meet those looks no more! — Oh, 

heavy stroke! 
Sweet brother of my soul! can I dis- 
semble 
The agony of this thought? ' — As thus 

she spoke 
The gathered sobs her quivering accents 

broke, 
And in my arms she hid her beating 

breast. 
I remained still for tears — sudden she 

woke 
As one awakes from sleep, and wildly 

pressed 
My bosom, her whole frame impetuously 

possessed. 

XLVIII 

* We part to meet again — but yon blue 

waste. 

Yon desert wide and deep, holds no recess 

Within whose happy silence, thus em- 
braced. 

We might survive all ills in one caress; 

Nor doth the grave — I fear 't is passion- 
less — 

Nor yon cold vacant Heaven: — we meet 
again 

Within the minds of men, whose lips 
shall bless 

Our memory, and whose hopes its light 
retain 
When these dissevered bones are trodden 
in the plain.' 

XLIX 

I could not speak, though she had ceased, 

for now 
The fountains of her feeling, swift and 

deep, 
Seemed to suspend the tumult of their 

flow. 
So we arose, and by the star-light steep 
Went homeward — neither did we speak 

nor weep. 
But, pale, were calm with passion. Thus 

subdued. 



CANTO THIRD 



69 



Like evening shades that o'er the moun- 
tains creep, 

We moved towards our home; where, in 
this mood, 
Each from the other sought refuge in soli- 
tude. 

CANTO THIRD 



What thoughts had sway o'er Cythna's 

lonely slumber 
That night, I know not; but my own did 

seem 
As if they might ten thousand years out- 
number 
Of waking life, the visions of a dream 
Which hid in one dim gulf the troubled 

stream 
Of mind; a boundless chaos wild and 

vast. 
Whose limits yet were never memory's 

theme; 
And I lay struggling as its whirlwinds 

passed, 
Sometimes for rapture sick, sometimes for 

pain aghast. 

II 

Two hours, whose mighty circle did em- 
brace 

More time than might make gray the in- 
fant world. 

Rolled thus, a weary and tumultuous 
space ; 

When the third came, like mist on 
breezes curled. 

From my dim sleep a shadow was un- 
furled; 

Methought, upon the threshold of a cave 

I sate with Cythna; drooping briouy, 
pearled 

With dew from the wild streamlet's 
shattered wave, 
Hung, where we sate to taste the joys which 
Nature gave. 

Ill 

We lived a day as we were wont to live. 
But Nature had a robe of glory on. 
And the bright air o'er every shape did 

weave 
Intenser hues, so that the herbless stone. 
The leafless bough among the leaves 

alone, 



Had being clearer than its own could be ; 
And Cythna's pure and radiant self was 

shown, 
In this strange vision, so divine to me, 
That if I loved before, now love was agony. 

IV 

Morn fled, noon came, evening, then 

night, descended. 
And we prolonged calm talk beneath the 

sphere 
Of the calm moon — when suddenly was 

blended 
With our repose a nameless sense of 

fear; 
And from the cave behind I seemed to 

hear 
Sounds gathering upwards — accents in- 
complete. 
And stifled shrieks, — and now, more 

near and near, 
A tumult and a rush of thronging feet 
The cavern's secret depths beneath the 

earth did beat. 



The scene was changed, and away, away. 



away 



Through the air and over the sea we 

sped, 
And Cythna in my sheltering bosom lay. 
And the winds bore me; through the 

darkness spread 
Around, the gaping earth then vomited 
Legions of foul and ghastly shapes, 

which hung 
Upon my flight; and ever as we fled 
They plucked at Cythna; soon to me 

then clung 
A sense of actual things those monstrous 

dreams among. 

VI 

And I lay struggling in the impotence 

Of sleep, while outward life had burst 
its bound. 

Though, still deluded, strove the tor- 
tured sense 

To its dire wanderings to adapt the 
sound 

Which in the light of morn was poured 
around 

Our dwelling; breathless, pale and una- 
ware 

I rose, and all the cottage crowded found 



70 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



With arm^d men, whose glittering swords 
were bare, 
And whose degraded limbs the Tyrant's 
garb did wear. 

VII 

And ere with rapid lips and gathered 

brow 
I could demand the cause, a feeble 

shriek — 
It was a feeble shriek, faint, far and 

low — 
Arrested me; my mien grew calm and 

meek, 
And grasping a small knife I went to 

seek 
That voice among the crowd — 't was 

Cythna's cry! 
Beneath most calm resolve did agony 

wreak 
Its whirlwind rage: — so I passed quietly 
Till I beheld where bound that dearest 

child did lie. 

VIII 

I started to behold her, for delight 
And exultation, and a joyance free. 
Solemn, serene and lofty, filled the 

light 
Of the calm smile with which she looked 

on me; 
So that I feared some brainless ecstasy, 
Wrought from that bitter woe, had wil- 

dered her. 

* Farewell! farewell! ' she said, as I drew 

nigh; 

* At first my peace was marred by this 

strange stir, 
Now I am calm as truth — its chosen min- 
ister. 

IX 

* Look not so, Laon — say farewell in 

hope; 
These bloody men are but the slaves who 

bear 
Their mistress to her task; it was my 

scope 
The slavery where they drag me now to 

share. 
And among captives willing chains to 

wear 
Awhile — the rest thou knowest. Return, 

dear friend! 
Let our first triumph trample the despair 



Which would ensnare us now, for, in the 
end. 
In victory or in death our hopes and fears 
must blend.' 



These words had fallen on my unheed- 
ing ear. 

Whilst I had watched the motions of the 
crew 

With seeming careless glance; not many 
were 

Around her, for their comrades just 
withdrew 

To guard some other victim ; so I drew 

My knife, and with one impulse, sud- 
denly. 

All unaware three of their number slew, 

And grasped a fourth by the throat, and 
with loud cry 
My countrymen invoked to death or lib- 
erty. 

XI 

What followed then I know not, for a 

stroke, 
On my raised arm and naked head came 

down. 
Filling my eyes with blood. — When I 

awoke, 
I felt that they had bound me in my 

swoon. 
And up a rock which overhangs the town 
By the steep path were bearing me; 

below 
The plain was filled with slaughter, — 

overthrown 
The vineyards and the harvests, and the 

glow 
Of blazing roofs shone far o'er the white 

Ocean's flow. 

XII 

Upon that rock a mighty column stood, 
Whose capital seemed sculptured in the 

sky, 
Which to the wanderers o'er the solitude 
Of distant seas, from ages long gone 

by, 
Had made a landmark; o'er its height to 

fly 

Scarcely the cloud, the vulture or the 

blast 
Has power, and when the shades of even- 

invf lie 



CANTO THIRD 



71 



On Earth and Ocean, its carved summits 
cast 
The sunken daylight far through the aerial 
waste. 

XIII 

They bore me to a cavern in the hill 
Beneath that column, and unbound me 

there ; 
And one did strip me stark ; and one did 

fill 
A vessel from the putrid pool; one bare 
A lighted torch, and four with friendless 

care 
Guided my steps the cavern-paths along; 
Then up a steep and dark and narrow 

stair 
We wound, until the torch's fiery tongue 
Amid the gushing day beamless and pallid 

hung. 

XIV 

They raised me to the platform of the 

pile, 
That column's dizzy height; the grate of 

brass. 
Through which they thrust me, open 

stood the while, 
As to its ponderous and suspended mass, 
With chains which eat into the flesh, 

alas! 
With brazen links, my naked limbs they 

bound ; 
The grate, as they departed to repass, 
With horrid clangor fell, and the far 

sound 
Of their retiring steps in the dense gloom 

was drowned. 

XV 

The noon was calm and bright: — around 

that column 
The overhanging sky and circling sea, 
Spread forth in silentness profound and 

solemn. 
The darkness of brief frenzy cast on me. 
So that I knew not my own misery; 
The islands and the mountains in the 

day 
Like clouds reposed afar; and I could 

see 
The town among the woods below that 

lay, 
And the dark rocks which bound the bright 

and glassy bay. 



XVI 

It was so calm, that scarce the feathery 

weed 
Sown by some eagle on the topmost stone 
Swayed in the air: — so bright, that noon 

did breed 
No shadow in the sky beside mine own — 
Mine, and the shadow of my chain alone. 
Below, the smoke of roofs involved in 

flame 
Rested like night; all else was clearly 

shown 
In that broad glare; yet sound to me 

none came. 
But of the living blood that ran within my 

frame. 

XVII 

The peace of madness fled, and ah, too 

soon! 
A ship was lying on the sunny main; 
Its sails were flagging in the breathless 

noon ; 
Its shadow lay beyond. That sight again 
Waked with its presence in my tranced 

brain 
The stings of a known sorrow, keen and 

cold; 
I knew that ship bore Cythna o'er the 

plain 
Of waters, to her blighting slavery sold, 
And watched it with such thoughts as must 

remain untold. 

XVIII 

I watched until the shades of evening 

wrapped 
Earth like an exhalation; then the bark 
Moved, for that calm was by the sunset 

snapped. 
It moved a speck upon the Ocean dark; 
Soon the wan stars came forth, and I 

could mark 
Its path no more! I sought to close mine 

eyes. 
But, like the balls, their lids were stiff 

and stark; 
I would have risen, but ere that I could 

rise 
My parched skin was split with piercing 

agonies. 

XIX 

I gnawed my brazen chain, and sought 
to sever 



72 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Its adamantine links, that I might die. 
O Liberty! forgive the base endeavor, 
Forgive me, if, reserved for victory, 
The Champion of thy faith e'er sought 

to fly! 
That starry night, with its clear silence, 

sent 
Tameless resolve which laughed at misery 
Into my soul — linked remembrance lent 
To that such power, to me such a severe 

content. 

XX 

To breathe, to be, to hope, or to despair 
And die, I questioned not; nor, though 

the Sun, 
Its shafts of agony kindling through the 

air, 
Moved over me, nor though in evening 

dun, 
Or when the stars their visible courses 

run. 
Or morning, the wide universe was 

spread 
In dreary calmness round me, did I shun 
Its presence, nor seek refuge with the 

dead 
From one faint hope whose flower a drop- 
ping poison shed. 

XXI 

Two days thus passed — I neither raved 

nor died; 
Thirst raged within me, like a scorpion's 

nest 
Built in mine entrails; I had spurned 

aside 
The water-vessel, while despair pos- 
sessed 
My thoughts, and now no drop remained. 

The uprest 
Of the third sun brought hunger — but 

the crust 
Which had been left was to my craving 
' breast 

Fuel, not food. I chewed the bitter dust, 
A.nd bit my bloodless arm, and licked the 

brazen rust. 

XXII 

My brain began to fail when the fourth 

morn 
Burst o'er the golden isles. A fearful 

sleep, 



Which through the caverns dreary and 
forlorn 

Of the riven soul sent its foul dreams to 
sweep 

With whirlwind swiftness — a fall far 
and deep — 

A gulf, a void, a sense of senselessness — 

These things dwelt in me, even as shadows 
keep 

Their watch in some dim charnel's lone- 
liness, — 
A shoreless sea, a sky sunless and planet- 
less! 

XXIII 

The forms which peopled this terrific 

trance 
I well remember. Like a choir of devils, 
Around me they involved a giddy dance; 
Legions seemed gathering from the misty 

levels 
Of Ocean, to supply those ceaseless 

revels, — 
Foul, ceaseless shadows; thought could 

not divide 
The actual world from these entangling 

evils. 
Which so bemocked themselves that 1 

descried 
All shapes like mine own self hideously 

multiplied. 

XXIV 

The sense of day and night, of false and 

true. 
Was dead within me. Yet two visions 

burst 
That darkness; one, as since that hour I 

knew, 
Was not a phantom of the realms ac- 
cursed. 
Where then my spirit dwelt — but of the 

first 
I know not yet, was it a dream or no; 
But both, though not distincter, were 

immersed 
In hues which, when through memory's 

waste they flow, 
Make their divided streams more bright 

and rapid now. 

XXV 

Methought that grate was lifted, and the 
seven. 



CANTO THIRD 



73 



Who brought me thither, four stiff 

corpses bare, 
And from the frieze to the four winds of 

Heaven 
Hung them on high by the entangled 

hair; 
Swarthy were three — the fourth was 

very fair; 
As they retired, the golden moon up- 
sprung, 
And eagerly, out in the giddy air. 
Leaning that I might eat, I stretched 

and clung 
Over the shapeless depth in which those 

corpses hung. 

XXVI 

A woman's shape, now lank and cold and 

blue. 
The dwelling of the many-colored worm, 
Hung there ; the white and hollow cheek 

I drew 
To my dry lips — What radiance did 

inform 
Those horny eyes? whose was that with- 
ered form? 
Alas, alas! it seemed that Cythna's ghost 
Laughed in those looks, and that the 

flesh was warm 
Within my teeth! — a whirlwind keen 

as frost 
Then in its sinking gulfs my sickening spirit 

tossed. 

XXVII 

Then seemed it that a tameless hurricane 
Arose, and bore me in its dark career 
Beyond the sun, beyond the stars that 

wane 
On the verge of formless space — it lan- 
guished there. 
And, dying, left a silence lone and drear, 
More horrible than famine. In the deep 
The shape of an old man did then ap- 
pear. 
Stately and beautiful; that dreadful sleep 
His heavenly smiles dispersed, and I could 
wake and weep. 

XXVIII 

And, when the blinding tears had fallen, 

I saw 
That column, and those corpses, and the 

moon, 



And felt the poisonous tooth of hunger 

gnaw 
My vitals; I rejoiced, as if the boon 
Of senseless death would be accorded 

soon. 
When from that stony gloom a voice 

arose. 
Solemn and sweet as when low winds 

attune 
The midnight pines; the grate did then 

unclose. 
And on that reverend form the moonlight 

did repose. 

XXIX 

He struck my chains, and gently spake 

and smiled; 
As they were loosened by that Hermit 

old, 
Mine eyes were of their madness half 

beguiled 
To answer those kind looks; he did en- 
fold 
His giant arms around me to uphold 
My wretched frame ; my scorched limbs 

he wound 
In linen moist and balmy, and as cold 
As dew to drooping leaves; the chain, 

with sound 
Like earthquake, through the chasm of 

that steep stair did bound, 

XXX 

As, lifting me, it fell! — What next I 
heard 

Were billows leaping on the harbor bar, 

And the shrill sea-wind whose breath 
idly stirred 

My hair; I looked abroad, and saw a 
star 

Shining beside a sail, and distant far 

That mountain and its column, the known 
mark 

Of those who in the wide deep wander- 
ing are, — 

So that I feared some Spirit, fell and 
dark. 
In trance had lain me thus within a fiend- 
ish bark. 

XXXI 

For now, indeed, over the salt sea billow 
I sailed; yet dared not look upon the 
shap^ 



H 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Of him who ruled the helm, although 

the pillow 
For my light head was hollowed in his 

lap, 
And my bare limbs his mantle did en- 
wrap, — 
Fearing it was a fiend; at last, he bent 
O'er me his aged face; as if to snap 
Those dreadful thoughts, the gentle 
grandsire bent. 
And to my inmost soul his soothing looks 
he sent. 

XXXII 

A soft and healing potion to my lips 
At intervals he raised — now looked on 

high 
To mark if yet the starry giant dips 
His zone in the dim sea — now cheer- 

ingly, 
Though he said little, did he speak to me. 
* It is a friend beside thee — take good 
cheer 
Poor victim, thou art now at liberty! ' 
I joyed as those a human tone to hear 
Who in cells deep and lone have languished 
many a year. 

XXXIII 

A dim and feeble joy, whose glimpses oft 
Were quenched in a relapse of wildering 

dreams; 
Yet still methought we sailed, until aloft 
The stars of night grew pallid, and the 

beams 
Of morn descended on the ocean-streams; 
And still that aged man, so grand and 

mild, 
Tended me, even as some sick mother 

seems 
To hang in hope over a dying child. 
Pill in the azure East darkness again was 

piled. 

XXXIV 

And then the night-wind, steaming from 
the shore, 

Sent odors dying sweet across the sea, 

And the swift boat the little waves which 
bore, 

Were cut by its keen keel, though slant- 
ingly; 

Soon I could hear the leaves sigh, and 
could see 



The myrtle-blossoms starring the dim 
grove, 

As past the pebbly beach the boat did 
flee 

On sidelong wing into a silent cove 
Where ebon pines a shade under the star- 
light wove. 



CANTO FOURTH 



The old man took the oars, and soon the 

bark 
Smote on the beach beside a tower of 

stone. 
It was a crumbling heap whose portal 

dark 
With blooming ivy-trails was overgrown ; 
Upon whose floor the spangling sands 

were strown, 
And rarest sea-shells, which the eternal 

flood. 
Slave to the mother of the months, had 

thrown 
Within the walls of that gray tower, 

which stood 
A changeling of man's art nursed amid 

Nature's brood. 

II 

When the old man his boat had anchored, 
He wound me in his arms with tender 

care, 
And very few but kindly words he said. 
And bore me through the tower adown a 

stair. 
Whose smooth descent some ceaseless 

step to wear 
For many a year had fallen. We came 

at last 
To a small chamber which with mosses 

rare 
Was tapestried, where me his soft hands 

placed 
Upon a couch of grass and oak-leaves in- 
terlaced. 

Ill 

The moon was darting through the lat- 
tices 

Its yellow light, warm as the beams of 
day — 

So warm that to admit the dewy breeze 



CANTO FOURTH 



75 



The old man opened them ; the moonlight 

lay 
Upon a lake whose waters wove their 

play 
Even to the threshold of that lonely 

home ; 
Within was seen in the dim wavering 

ray 
The antique sculptured roof, and many a 

tome 
Whose lore had made that sage all that he 

had become. 

IV 

The rock-built barrier of the sea was 

passed 
And I was on the margin of a lake, 
A lonely lake, amid the forests vast 
And snowy mountains. Did my spirit 

wake 
From sleep as many-colored as the snake 
That girds eternity ? in life and truth 
Might not my heart its cravings ever 

slake ? 
Was Cythna then a dream, and all my 

youth, 
And all its hopes and fears, and all its joy 

and ruth ? 



Thus madness came again, — a milder 
madness. 

Which darkened nought but time's un- 
quiet flow 

With supernatural shades of clinging 
sadness; 

That gentle Hermit, in my helpless woe. 

By my sick couch was busy to and fro, 

Like a strong spirit ministrant of good; 

When I was healed, he led me forth to 
show 

The wonders of his sylvan solitude, 
And we together sate by that isle-fretted 
flood. 

VI 

He knew his soothing words to weave 

with skill 
From all my madness told; like mine 

own heart. 
Of Cythna would he question me, until 
That thrilling name had ceased to make 

me start, 
From his familiar lips; it was not art, 



Of wisdom and of justice when he 
spoke — 

When 'mid soft looks of pity, there would 
dart 

A glance as keen as is the lightning's 
stroke 
When it doth rive the knots of some an- 
cestral oak. 

VII 

Thus slowly from my brain the darkness 

rolled ; 
My thoughts their due array did reas- 

sume 
Through the enchantments of that Hermit 

old. 
Then I bethought me of the glorious 

doom 
Of those who sternly struggle to relume 
The lamp of Hope o'er man's bewildered 

lot; 
And, sitting by the waters, in the gloom 
Of eve, to that friend's heart I told my 

thought — 
That heart which had grown old, but had 

corrupted not. 

VIII 

That hoary man had spent his livelong 

age 
In converse with the dead who leave the 

stamp 
Of ever-burning thoughts on many a 

page. 
When they are gone into the senseless 

damp 
Of graves; his spirit thus became a lamp 
Of splendor, like to those on which it 

fed; 
Through peopled haunts, the City and 

the Camp, 
Deep thirst for knowledge had his foot- 
steps led. 
And all the ways of men among mankind 

he read. 

IX 

But custom maketh blind and obdurate 
The loftiest hearts; he had beheld the 

woe 
In which mankind was bound, but 

deemed that fate 
Which made them abject would pre« 

serve them so; 



76 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



And in such faith, some steadfast joy to 

know, 
He sought this cell; but when fame went 

abroad 
That one in Argolis did undergo 
Torture for liberty, and that the crowd 
High truths from gifted lips had heard and 

understood. 



And that the multitude was gathering 

wide, — 
His spirit leaped within his aged frame; 
In lonely peace he could no more abide, 
But to the land on which the victor's 

flame 
Had fed, my native land, the Hermit 

came; 
Each heart was there a shield, and every 

tongue 
Was as a sword of truth — young Laon's 

name 
Rallied their secret hopes, though tyrants 

sung 
Hymns of triumphant joy our scattered 

tribes among. 

XI 

He came to the lone column on the rock. 

And with his sweet and mighty elo- 
quence 

The hearts of those who watched it did 
unlock, 

And made them melt in tears of peni- 
tence. 

They gave him entrance free to bear me 
thence. 
* Since this,' the old man said, ' seven 
years are spent. 

While slowly truth on thy benighted 
sense 

Has crept; the hope which wildered it 
has lent, 
Meanwhile, to me the power of a sublime 
intent. 

XII 

*Yes, from the records of my youthful 

state, 
And from the lore of bards and sages 

old, 
From whatsoe'er my wakened thoughts 

create 
Out of the hopes of thine aspirings bold. 
Have I collected language to unfold 



Truth to my countrymen; from shore tc 

shore 
Doctrines of human power my words 

have told; 
They have been heard, and men aspire 

to more 
Than they have ever gained or ever lost 

of yore. 

XIII 

* In secret chambers parents read, and 

weep. 
My writings to their babes, no longer 

blind ; 
And young men gather when their ty- 
rants sleep, 
And vows of faith each to the other 

bind; 
And marriageable maidens, who have 

pined 
With love till life seemed melting 

through their look, 
A warmer zeal, a nobler hope, now find; 
And every bosom thus is rapt and shook, 
Like autumn's myriad leaves in one swoln 

mountain brook. 

XIV 

' The tyrants of the Golden City tremble 

At voices which are heard about the 
streets; 

The ministers of fraud can scarce dis- 
semble 

The lies of their own heart, but when 
one meets 

Another at the shrine, he inly weets. 

Though he says nothing, that the truth 
is known; 

Murderers are pale upon the judgment- 
seats. 

And gold grows vile even to the wealthy 
crone. 
And laughter fills the Fane, and curses 
shake the Throne. 

XV 

* Kind thoughts, and mighty hopes, and 

gentle deeds 

Abound; for fearless love, and the pure 
law 

Of mild equality and peace, succeeds 

To faiths which long have held the world 
in awe, 

Bloody, and false, and cold. As whirl- 
pools draw 



CANTO FOURTH 



77 



All wrecks of Ocean to their chasm, the 
sway 

Of thy strong genius, Laon, which fore- 
saw 

This hope, compels all spirits to obey. 
Which round thy secret strength now 
throng in wide array. 

XVI 

* For I have been thy passive instru- 

ment ' — 
(As thus the old man spake, his counte- 
nance 
Gleamed on me like a spirit's) — * thou 

hast lent 
To me, to all, the power to advance 
Towards this unforeseen deliverance 
From our ancestral chains — ay, thou 

didst rear 
That lamp of hope on high, which time 

nor chance 
Nor change may not extinguish, and my 

share 
Of good was o'er the world its gathered 

beams to bear. 

XVII 

* But I, alas! am both unknown and old. 
And though the woof of wisdom I know 

well 
To dye in hues of language, I am cold 
In seeming, and the hopes which inly 

dwell 
My manners note that I did long repel ; 
But Laou's name to the tumultuous 

throng 
Were like the star whose beams the 

waves compel 
And tempests, and his soul - subduing 

tongue 
Were as a lance to quell the mailed crest 

of wrong. 

XVIII 

* Perchance blood need not flow ; if thou 

at length 
Wouldst rise, perchance the very slaves 

would spare 
Their brethren and themselves; great is 

the strength 
Of words — for lately did a maiden fair. 
Who from her childhood has been 

taught to bear 
The Tyrant's heaviest yoke, arise, and 

make 



Her sex the law of truth and freedom 

hear, 
And with these quiet words — " for thine 

own sake 
I prithee spare me," — did with ruth so 

take 

XIX 

* All hearts that even the torturer, who 

had bound 

Her meek calm frame, ere it was yet 
impaled. 

Loosened her weeping then; nor could 
be found 

One human hand to harm her. Unas- 
sailed 

Therefore she walks through the great 
City, veiled 

In virtue's adamantine eloquence, 

'Gainst scorn and death and pain thus 
trebly mailed, 

And blending in the smiles of that de- 
fence 
The serpent and the dove, wisdom and 
innocence. 

XX 

* The wild-eyed women throng around her 

path; 
From their luxurious dungeons, from the 

dust 
Of meaner thralls, from the oppressor's 

wrath. 
Or the caresses of his sated lust. 
They congregate; in her they put their 

trust. 
The tyrants send their arm^d slaves to 

quell 
Her power; they, even like a thunder- 
gust 
Caught by some forest, bend beneath the 

spell 
Of that young maiden's speech, and to their 

chiefs rebel. 

XXI 

'Thus she doth equal laws and justice 

teach 
To woman, outraged and polluted long; 
Gathering the sweetest fruit in human 

reach 
For those fair hands now free, while 

arm^d wrong 
Trembles before her look, though it be 

strong; 



78 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Thousands thus dwell beside her, virgms 

bright 
And matrons with their babes, a stately 

throng ! 
Lovers renew the vows which they did 

plight 
[n early faith, and hearts long parted now 

unite; 

XXII 

* And homeless orphans find a home near 

her, 

And those poor victims of the proud, no 
less, 

Fair wrecks, on whom the smiling world 
with stir 

Thrusts the redemption of its wicked- 
ness. 

In squalid huts, and in its palaces, 

Sits Lust alone, while o'er the land is 
borne 

Her voice, whose awful sweetness doth 
repress 

All evil; and her foes relenting turn, 
A.nd cast the vote of love in hope's aban- 
doned urn. 

XXIII 

* So in the populous City, a young maiden 
Has baffled Havoc of the prey which he 
Marks as his own, whene'er with chains 

o'erladen 

Men make them arms to hurl down ty- 
ranny, — 

False arbiter between the bound and free ; 

And o'er the land, in hamlets and in 
towns 

The multitudes collect tumultuously. 

And throng in arms; but tyranny dis- 
owns 
Their claim, and gathers strength around 
its trembling thrones. 

XXIV 

* Blood soon, although unwillingly, to shed 
The free cannot forbear. The Queen of 

Slaves, 
The hood-winked Angel of the blind and 

dead, 
Custom, with iron mace points to the 

graves 
Where her own standard desolately waves 
Over the dxist of Prophets and of Kings. 
Many yet stand in her array — " she 

paves 



Her path with human hearts," and o'er it 
flings 
The wildering gloom of her immeasurable 
wings. 

XXV 

' There is a plain beneath the City's wall, 
Bounded by misty mountains, wide and 

vast; 
Millions there lift at Freedom's thrilling 

call 
Ten thousand standards wide; they load 

the blast 
Which bears one sound of many voices 

past. 
And startles on his throne their sceptred 

foe; 
He sits amid his idle pomp aghast. 
And that his power hath passed away, 

doth know — 
Why pause the victor swords to seal his 

overthrow ? 

XXVI 

' The Tyrant's guards resistance yet main- 
tain, 
Fearless, and fierce, and hard as beasts 

of blood; 
They stand a speck amid the peopled 

plain; 
Carnage and ruin have been made their 

food 
From infancy ; ill has become their good. 
And for its hateful sake their will has 

wove 
The chains which eat their hearts. The 

multitude. 
Surrounding them, with words of human 

love 
Seek from their own decay their stubborn 

minds to move. 

XXVII 

' Over the land is felt a sudden pause, 
As night and day those ruthless bands 

around 
The watch of love is kept — a trance 

which awes 
The thoughts of men with hope; as when 

the sound 
Of whirlwind, whose fierce blasts the 

waves and clouds confound. 
Dies suddenly, the mariner in fear 
Feels silence sink upon his heart — thus 

bound 



CANTO FOURTH 



79 



The conquerors pause ; and oh ! may free- 


The mirror of her thoughts, and still the 


men ne'er 


grace 


Clasp the relentless knees of Dread, the 


Which her mind's shadow cast left there U 


murderer ! 


lingering trace. 


XXVIII 


XXXI 


* If blood be shed, 't is but a change and 


What then was I? She slumbered with 


choice 


the dead. 


Of bonds — from slavery to cowardice, — 


Glory and joy and peace had come and 


A wretched fall ! Uplift thy charmed 


gone. 


voice. 


Doth the cloud perish when the beams 


Pour on those evil men the love that 


are fled 


lies 


Which steeped its skirts in gold ? or, 


Hovering within those spirit-soothing 


dark and lone, 


eyes ! 


Doth it not through the paths of night 


Arise, my friend, farewell ! ' — As thus 


unknown, 


he spake, 


On outspread wings of its own wind up- 


From the green earth lightly I did arise. 


borne, 


As one out of dim dreams that doth 


Pour rain upon the earth ? the stars are 


awake. 


shown. 


And looked upon the depth of that reposing 


When the cold moon sharpens her silver 


lake. 


horn 




Under the sea, and make the wide night 


XXIX 


not forlorn. 


I saw my countenance reflected there; — 




And then my youth fell on me like a 


XXXII 


wind 


Strengthened in heart, yet sad, that aged 


Descending on still waters. My thin hair 


man 


Was prematurely gray; my face was 


I left, with interchange of looks and tears 


lined 


And lingering speech, and to the Camp 


With channels, such as suffering leaves 


began 


behind. 


My way. O'er many a mountain-chain 


Not age; my brow was pale, but in my 


which rears 


cheek 


Its hundred crests aloft my spirit bears 


And lips a flush of gnawing fire did find 


My frame, o'er many a dale and many a 


Their food and dwelling; though mine 


moor; 


eyes might speak 


And gayly now meseems serene earth 


A subtle mind and strong within a frame 


wears 


thus weak. 


The blosmy spring's star-bright investi- 




ture, — 


XXX 


A vision which aught sad from sadnes- 


And though their lustre now was spent 


might allure. 


and faded, 




Yet in my hollow looks and withered 


XXXIII 


mien 


My powers revived within me, and I 


The likeness of a shape for which was 


went, 


braided 


As one whom winds waft o'er the bend- 


The brightest woof of genius still was 


ing grass, 


seen — 


Through many a vale of that broad con- 


One who, methought, had gone from the 


tinent. 


world's scene. 


At night when I reposed, fair dreams did 


And left it vacant — 't was her lover's 


pass 


face — 


Before my pillow; my own Cythna was, 


It might resemble her — it once had 


Not like a child of death, among thena 


been 


ever; 



8o 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



When I arose from rest, a woful mass 
That gentlest sleep seemed from my life 

to sever, 
As if the light of youth were not withdrawn 

forever. 

XXXIV 

Aye as I went, that maiden who had 

reared 
The torch of Truth afar, of whose high 

deeds 
The Hermit in his pilgrimage had heard. 
Haunted my thoughts. Ah, Hope its 

sickness feeds 
With whatsoe'er it finds, or flowers or 

weeds! 
Could she be Cythna? Was that corpse 

a shade 
Such as self -torturing thought from mad- 
ness breeds? 
Why was this hope not torture? Yet it 

made 
A light around my steps which would not 

ever fade. 



CANTO FIFTH 



Over the utmost hill at length I sped, 

A snowy steep: — the moon was hanging 
low 

Over the Asian mountains, and, out- 
spread 

The plain, the City, and the Camp be- 
low, 

Skirted the midnight Ocean's glimmer- 
ing flow; 

The City's moon-lit spires and myriad 
lamps 

Like stars in a sublunar sky did glow, 

And fires blazed far amid the scattered 
camps, 
Like springs of flame which burst where'er 
swift Earthquake stamps. 

II 

All slept but those in watchful arms who 
stood, 

And those who sate tending the beacon's 
light; 

And the few sounds from that vast mul- 
titude 

Made silence more profound. Oh, what 
a might 



Of human thought was cradled in that 

night! 
How many hearts impenetrably veiled 
Beat underneath its shade! what secret 

fight 
Evil and Good, in woven passions mailed, 
Waged through that silent throng — a war 

that never failed! 

Ill 

And now the Power of Good held victory. 
So, through the labyrinth of many a tent, 
Among the silent millions who did lie 
In innocent sleep, exultingly I went. 
The moon had left Heaven desert now, 

but lent 
From eastern morn the first faint lustre 

showed 
An arm^d youth; over his spear he bent 
His downward face : — 'A friend ! ' I 

cried aloud, 
And quickly common hopes made freemen 

understood. 

IV 

I sate beside him while the morning 

beam 
Crept slowly over Heaven, and talked 

with him 
Of those immortal hopes, a glorious 

theme, 
Which led us forth, until the stars grew 

dim; 
And all the while methought his voice 

did swim, 
As if it drowned in remembrance were 
Of thoughts which make the moist eyes 

overbrim ; 
At last, when daylight 'gan to fill the air. 
He looked on me, and cried in wonder, 

' Thou art here ! ' 

V 

Then, suddenly, I knew it was the youth 
In whom its earliest hopes my spirit 

found ; 
But envious tongues had stained his 

spotless truth, 
And thoughtless pride his love in silence 

bound. 
And shame and sorrow mine in toils had 

wound, 
Whilst he was innocent, and I deluded; 
The truth now came upon me — on the 

ground 



CANTO FIFTH 



8i 



Tears of repenting joy, which fast in- 
truded, 
Fell fast — and o'er its peace our mingling 
spirits brooded. 

VI 

Thus, while with rapid lips and earnest 

eyes 
We talked, a sound of sweeping conflict, 

spread 
As from the earth, did suddenly arise. 
From every tent, roused by that clamor 

dread. 
Our bands outsprung and seized their 

arms; we sped 
Towards the sound; our tribes were 

gathering far. 
Those sanguine slaves, amid ten thousand 

dead 
Stabbed in their sleep, trampled in 

treacherous war 
The gentle hearts whose power their lives 

had sought to spare. 

VII 

Like rabid snakes that sting some gentle 
child 

Who brings them food when winter false 
and fair 

Allures them forth with its cold smiles, 
so wild 

They rage among the camp; they over- 
bear 

The patriot hosts — confusion, then de- 
spair. 

Descends like night — when ' Laon! ' 
one did cry; 

Like a bright ghost from Heaven that 
shout did scare 

The slaves, and, widening through the 
vaulted sky. 
Seemed sent from Earth to Heaven in sign 
of victory. 

VIII 

In sudden panic those false murderers 

fled, 
Like insect tribes before the northern 

gale; 
But swifter still our hosts encompassed 
Their shattered ranks, and in a craggy 

vale, 
Where even their fierce despair might 

nought avail, 



Hemmed them around! — and then re- 
venge and fear 
Made the high virtue of the patriots fail; 
One pointed on his foe the mortal spear — 
I rushed before its point, and cried * For- 
bear, forbear! ' 

IX 

The spear transfixed my arm that was 
uplifted 

In swift expostulation, and the blood 

Gushed round its point; I smiled, and — 
* Oh! thou gifted 

With eloquence which shall not be with- 
stood. 

Flow thus!' I cried in joy, * thou vital 
flood. 

Until my heart be dry, ere thus the cause 

For which thou wert aught worthy be 
subdued! — 

Ah, ye are pale — ye weep — your pas- 
sions pause — 
'T is well! ye feel the truth of love's be- 
nignant laws. 

X 

'Soldiers, our brethren and our friends 

are slain; 
Ye murdered them, I think, as they did 

sleep! 
Alas, what have ye done ? The slightest 

pain 
Which ye might suffer, there were eyes 

to weep. 
But ye have quenched them — there 

were smiles to steep 
Your hearts in balm, but they are lost in 

woe; 
And those whom love did set his watch 

to keep 
Around your tents truth's freedom to 

bestow, 
Ye stabbed as they did sleep — but they 

forgive ye now. 

XI 

* Oh, wherefore should ill ever flow from 

And pain still keener pain forever breed ? 
We all are brethren — even the slaves 

who kill 
For hire are men; and to avenge misdeed 
On the misdoer doth but Misery feed 
With her own broken heart! O Earth, 

O Heaven! 



82 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



And thou, dread Nature, which to every 

deed 
And all that lives, or is, to be hath given, 
Even as to thee have these done ill, and are 

forgiven. 

XII 

* Join then your hands and hearts, and let 

the past 
Be as a grave which gives not up its dead 
To evil thouglits.' — A film then over- 
cast 
My sense with dimness, for the wound, 

which bled 
Freshly, swift shadows o'er mine eyes 

had shed. 
When I awoke, I lay 'mid friends and 

foes. 
And earnest countenances on me shed 
The liglit of questioning looks, whilst 

one did close 
My wound with balmiest herbs, and soothed 

me to repose ; 

XIII 

And one, whose spear had pierced me, 

leaned beside 
With quivering lips and humid eyes; and 

all 
Seemed like some brothers on a journey 

wide 
Gone forth, whom now strange meeting 

did befall 
In a strange land round one whom they 

might call 
Their friend, their chief, their father, for 

assay 
Of peril, which had saved them from the 

thrall 
Of death, now suffering. Thus the vast 

array 
Of those fraternal bands were reconciled 

that day. 

XIV 

Lifting the thunder of their acclamation. 
Towards the City then the multitude, 
And I among them, went in joy — a 

nation 
Made free by love; a mighty brother- 
hood 
Linked by a jealous interchange of good ; 
A glorious pageant, more magnificent 
Than kingly slaves arrayed in gold and 
blood, 



When they return from carnage, and are 
sent 
In triumph bright beneath the populous 
battlement. 

XV 

Afar, the City walls were thronged on 

high. 
And myriads on each giddy turret clung. 
And to each spire far lessening in the 

sky 
Bright pennons on the idle winds were 

hung; 
As we approached, a shout of joyance 

sprung 
At once from all the crowd, as if the 

vast 
And peopled Earth its boundless skies 

among 
The sudden clamor of delight had cast. 
When from before its face some general 

wreck had passed. 

XVI 

Our armies through the City's hundred 

gates 
Were poured, like brooks which to the 

rocky lair 
Of some deep lake, whose silence them 

awaits. 
Throng from the mountains when the 

storms are there; 
And, as we passed through the calm 

sunny air, 
A thousand flower-inwoven crowns were 

shed, 
The token-flowers of truth and freedom 

fair, 
And fairest hands bound them on many 

a head, 
Those angels of love's heaven that over all 

was spread. 

XVII 

I trod as one tranced in some rapturous 
vision; 

Those bloody bands so lately reconciled. 

Were ever, as they went, by the contri- 
tion 

Of anger turned to love, from ill be- 
guiled. 

And every one on them more gently 
smiled 

Because they had done evil; the sweet 
awe 



CANTO FIFTH 



83 



Of such mild looks made their own hearts 

grow mild, 
And did with soft attraction ever draw 
Their spirits to the love of freedom's equal 

law. 

XVIII 

And they, and all, in one loud symphony 
My name with Liberty commingling 

lifted — 
* The friend and the preserver of the free! 
The parent of this joy!' and fair eyes, 

gifted 
With feelings caught from one who had 

uplifted 
The light of a great spirit, round me 

shone ; 
And all the shapes of this grand scenery 

shifted 
Like restless clouds before the steadfast 

sun. 
Where was that Maid ? I asked, but it was 

known of none. 

XIX 

Laone was the name her love had chosen, 

For she was nameless, and her birth 
none knew. 

Where was Laone now ? — The words 
were frozen 

Within my lips with fear J but to sub- 
due 

Such dreadful hope to my great task was 
due. 

And when at length one brought reply 
that she 

To-morrow would appear, I then with- 
drew 

To judge what need for that great throng 
might be. 
For now the stars came thick over the twi- 
light sea. 

XX 

Yet need was none for rest or food to 

care. 
Even though that multitude was passing 

great. 
Since each one for the other did prepare 
All kindly succor. Therefore to the 

gate 
Of the Imperial House, now desolate, 
I passed, and there was found aghast, 

alone, 
The fallen Tyrant! — silently he sate 



Upon the footstool of his golden throne, 
Which, starred with sunny gems, in its owu 
lustre shone. 

XXI 

Alone, but for one child who led before 
him 

A graceful dance — the only living 
thing, 

Of all the crowd, which thither to adore 
him 

Flocked yesterday, who solace sought to 
bring 

In his abandonment; she knew the King 

Had praised her dance of yore, and now 
she wove 

Its circles, aye weeping and murmur- 
ing* 

'Mid her sad task of unregarded love, 

That to no smiles it might his speechless 
sadness move. 

XXII 

She fled to him, and wildly clasped his 

feet 
When human steps were heard; he 

moved nor spoke, 
Nor changed his hue, nor raised his looks 

to meet 
The gaze of strangers. Our loud eu' 

trance woke 
The echoes of the hall, which circling 

broke 
The calm of its recesses ; like a tomb 
Its sculptured walls vacantly to the 

stroke 
Of footfalls answered, and the twilight's 

gloom 
Lay like a charnel's mist within the radiant 

dome. 

XXIII 

The little child stood up when we came 

nigh; 
Her lips and cheeks seemed very pale 

and wan. 
But on her forehead and within her eye 
Lay beauty which makes hearts that feed 

thereon 
Sick with excess of sweetness; on the 

throne 
She leaned; the King, with gathered 

brow and lips 
Wreathed by long scorn, did inly sneei 

and frown, 



B4 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



With hue like that when some great 
painter dips 
His pencil in the gloom of earthquake and 
eclipse. 

XXIV 

She stood beside him like a rainbow 

braided 
Within some storm, when scarce its 

shadows vast 
From the blue paths of the swift sun 

have faded ; 
A sweet and solemn smile, like Cythna's, 

cast 
One moment's light, which made my 

heart beat fast, 
O'er that child's parted lips — a gleam 

of bliss, 
A shade of vanished days; as the tears 

passed 
Which wrapped it, even as with a father's 

kiss 
1 pressed those softest eyes in trembling 

tenderness. 

XXV 

The sceptred wretch then from that soli- 
tude 

I drew, and, of his change compassion- 
ate. 

With words of sadness soothed his rugged 
mood. 

But he, while pride and fear held deep 
debate. 

With sullen guile of ill-dissembled hate 

Glared on me as a toothless snake might 
glare ; 

Pity, not scorn, I felt, though desolate 

The desolator now, and unaware 
The curses which he mocked had caught 
him by the hair. 

XXVI 

I led him forth from that which now 
might seem 

A gorgeous grave; through portals sculp- 
tured deep 

With imagery beautiful as dream 

We went, and left the shades which tend 
on sleep 

Over its unregarded gold to keep 

Their silent watch. The child trod 
faintingly. 

And as she went, the tears which she did 
weep 



Glanced in the star-light ; wilder^d 
seemed she. 
And, when I spake, for sobs she could not 
answer me. 

XXVII 

At last the Tyrant cried, * She hungers, 

slave ! 
Stab her, or give her bread ! * — It was a 

tone 
Such as sick fancies in a new-made grave 
Might hear. I trembled, for the truth 

was known, — 
He with this child had thus been left 

alone, 
And neither had gone forth for food, but 

he 
In mingled pride and awe cowered near 

his throne. 
And she, a nursling of captivity, 
Knew nought beyond those walls, nor what 

such change might be. 

XXVIII 

And he was troubled at a charm with- 
drawn 
Thus suddenly — that sceptres ruled no 

more, 
That even from gold the dreadful strength 

was gone 
Which once made all things subject to its 

power; 
Such wonder seized him as if hour by 

hour 
The past had come again; and the swift 

fall 
Of one so great and terrible of yore 
To desolateness, in the hearts of all 
Like wonder stirred who saw such awful 

change befall. 

XXIX 

A mighty crowd, such as the wide land 

pours 
Once in a thousand years, now gathered 

round 
The fallen Tyrant; like the rush of 

showers 
Of hail in spring, pattering along the 

ground, 
Their many footsteps fell — else came no 

sound 
From the wide multitude; that lonelj 

man 
Then knew the burden of his change, 

and found, 



CANTO FIFTH 



8S 



Concealing in the dust his visage wan, 
Refuge from the keen looks which through 
his bosom ran. 

XXX 

And he was faint withal. I sate beside 
him 

Upon the earth, and took that child so fair 

From his weak arms, that ill might none 
betide him 

Or her ; when food was brought to them, 
her share 

To his averted lips the child did bear. 

But, when she saw he had enough, she 
ate. 

And wept the while; the lonely man's de- 
spair 

Hunger then overcame, and, of his state 
Forgetful, on the dust as in a trance he sate. 

XXXI 

Slowly the silence of the multitudes 
Passed, as when far is heard in some lone 

dell 
The gathering of a wind among the 

woods: 
* And he is fallen! ' they cry, ' he who did 

dwell 
Like famine or the plague, or aught more 

fell. 
Among our homes, is fallen! the mur- 
derer 
Who slaked his thirsting soul, as from a 

well 
Of blood and tears, with ruin! he is here! 
Sunk in a gulf of scorn from which none 

may him rear! ' 

XXXII 

Then was heard — * He who judged, let 
him be brousrht 

To judgment! blood for blood cries from 
the soil 

On which his crimes have deep pollution 
wrought! 

Shall Othman only unavenged despoil? 

Shall they, who by the stress of grinding 
toil 

Wrest from the unwilling earth his lux- 
uries. 

Perish for crime, while his foul blood 
may boil 

Or creep within his veins at will? Arise! 
And to high Justice make her chosen sacri- 
fice!' 



XXXIII 

* What do ye seek ? what fear ye ? ' then 

I cried. 
Suddenly starting forth, ' that ye should 

shed 
The blood of Othman? if your hearts are 

tried 
In the true love of freedom, cease to 

dread 
This one poor lonely man ; beneath 

Heaven spread 
In purest light above us all, through 

Earth — 
Maternal Earth, who doth her sweet 

smiles shed 
For all — let him go free, until the worth 
Of human nature win from these a second 

birth. 

XXXIV 

' What call ye justice ? Is there one who 

ne'er 
In secret thought has wished another's 

ill? 
Are ye all pure? Let those stand forth 

who hear 
And tremble not. Shall they insult and 

kill, 
If such they be? their mild eyes can they 

fill 
With the false anger of the hypocrite? 
Alas, such were not pure! The chastened 

will 
Of virtue sees that justice is the light 
Of love, and not revenge and terror and 

despite.' 

XXXV 

The murmur of the people, slowly dy- 
ings 

Paused as I spake; then those who near 
me were 

Cast gentle looks where the lone man 
was lying 

Shrouding his head, which now that in- 
fant fair 

Clasped on her lap in silence; through 
the air 

Sobs were then heard, and many kissed 
my feet 

In pity's madness, and to the despair 

Of him whom late they cursed a solace 
sweet 
His very victims brought — soft looks and 
speeches meet. 



86 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



XXXVI 

Then to a home for his repose assigned, 

Accompanied by the still throng, he went 

In silence, where to soothe his rankling 
mind 

Some likeness of his ancient state was 
lent ; 

And if his heart could have been inno- 
cent 

As those who pardoned him, he might 
have ended 

His days in peace; but his straight lips 
were bent, 

Men said, into a smile which guile por- 
tended, — 
A sight with which that child, like hope 
with fear, was blended. 

XXXVII 

'T was midnight now, the eve of that 

great day 
Whereon the many nations, at whose 

call 
The chains of earth like mist melted 

away, 
Decreed to hold a sacred Festival, 
A rite to attest the equality of all 
Who live. So to their homes, to dream 

or wake. 
All went. The sleepless silence did re- 
call 
Laone to my thoughts, with hopes that 

make 
The flood recede from which their thirst 

they seek to slake. 

XXXVIII 

The dawn flowed forth, and from its 
purple fountains 

I drank those hopes which make the spirit 
quail, 

As to the plain between the misty moun- 
tains 

And the great City, with a countenance 
pale, 

I went. It was a sight which might avail 

To make men weep exulting tears, for 
whom 

Now first from human power the rev- 
erend veil 

Was torn, to see Earth from her general 
womb 
Four forth her swarming sons to a fraternal 
doom : 



XXXIX 

To see, far glancing in the misty morn- 

The signs of that innumerable host; 

To hear one sound of many made, the 
warning 

Of Earth to Heaven from its free chil- 
dren tossed; 

Wliile the eternal hills, and the sea lost 

In wavering light, and, starring the blue 
sky. 

The City's myriad spires of gold, almost 

With human joy made mute society — 
Its witnesses with men who must hereafter 
be: 

XL 

To see, like some vast island from the 
Ocean, 

The Altar of the Federation rear 

Its pile i' the midst — a work which the 
devotion 

Of millions in one night created there. 

Sudden as when the moonrise makes ap- 
pear 

Strange clouds in the east — a marble 
pyramid 

Distinct with steps ; — that mighty shape 
did wear 

The light of genius; its still shadow hid 
Far ships; to know its height the morning 
mists forbid ! — 

XLI 

To hear the restless multitudes forever 
Around the base of that great Altar 

flow, 
As on some mountain islet burst and 

shiver 
Atlantic waves; and, solemnly and slow, 
As the wind bore that tumult to and fro. 
To feel the dreamlike music, which did 

swim 
Like beams through floating clouds on 

waves below, 
Falling in pauses, from that Altar dim. 
As silver-sounding tongues breathed an 

aerial hymn. 

XLII 

To hear, to see, to live, was on that 

morn 
Lethean joy! so that all those assembled 
Cast off their memories of the past out- 
worn ; 



CANTO FIFTH 



S7 



Two only bosoms with their own life 
trembled, 

And mine was one, — and we had both 
dissembled; 

So with a beating heart I went, and one. 

Who having much, covets yet more, re- 
sembled, — 

A lost and dear possession, which not 
won. 
He walks in lonely gloom beneath the noon- 
day sun. 

XLIII 

To the great Pyramid I came; its stair 

With female choirs was thronged, the 
loveliest 

Among the free, grouped with its sculp- 
tures rare. 

As I approached, the morning's golden 
mist, 

Which now the wonder-stricken breezes 
kissed 

With their cold lips, fled, and the sum- 
mit shone 

Like Athos seen from Samothracia, 
dressed 

In earliest light, by vintagers; and One 
Sate there, a female Shape upon an ivory 
throne : — 

XLIV 

A Form most like the imagined habitant 
Of silver exhalations sprung from dawn. 
By winds which feed on sunrise woven, 

to enchant 
The faiths of men. All mortal eyes were 

drawn — 
As famished mariners through strange 

seas gone 
Gaze on a burning watch-tower — by the 

light 
Of those divinest lineaments. Alone, 
With thoughts which none could share, 

from that fair sight 
I turned in sickness, for a veil shrouded 

her countenance bright. 

XLV 

And neither did I hear the acclamations, 
Which from brief silence bursting filled 

the air 
With her strange name and mine, from 

all the nations 
Which we, they said, in strength had 

gathered there 



From the sleep of bondage; nor the 

vision fair 
Of that bright pageantry beheld; but 

blind 
And silent, as a breathing corpse, did fare, 
Leaning upon my friend, till like a wind 
To fevered cheeks a voice flowed o'er my 

troubled mind. 

XLVI 

Like music of some minstrel heavenly 

gifted. 
To one whom fiends enthrall, this voice 

to me; 
Scarce did I wish her veil to be uplifted, 
I was so calm and joyous. I could see 
The platform where we stood, the statues 

three 
Which kept their marble watch on that 

high shrine, 
The multitudes, the mountains, and the 

sea, — 
As, when eclipse hath passed, things sud- 
den shine 
To men's astonished eyes most clear and 

crystalline. 

XLVII 

At first Laone spoke most tremulously; 

But soon her voice the calmness which it 
shed 

Gathered, and — ' Thou art whom I 
sought to see. 

And thou art our first votary here,' she 
said; 
' I had a dear friend once, but he is dead! 

And, of all those on the wide earth who 
breathe, 

Thou dost resemble him alone. I spread 

This veil between us two that thou be- 
neath 
Shouldst image one who may have been 
long lost in death. 

XLVIIT 

' For this wilt thou not henceforth pardon 

me ? 
Yes, but those joys which silence well 

requite 
Forbid reply. Why men have chosen me 
lo be the Priestess of this holiest rite 
I scarcely know, but that the floods of 

light 
Which flow over the world have borne 

me hither 



88 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



To meet thee, long most dear. And now 
unite 

Thine hand with mine, and may all com- 
fort wither 
From both the hearts whose pulse in joy 
now beat together, 

XLIX 

* If our own will as others' law we bind, 
If the foul worship trampled here we fear, 
If as ourselves we cease to love our 

kind ! ' — 
She paused, and pointed upwards — 

sculptured there 
Three shapes around her ivory throne 

appear. 
One was a Giant, like a child asleep 
On a loose rock, whose grasp crushed, as 

it were 
In dream, sceptres and crowns; and orie 

did keep 
Its watchful eyes in doubt whether to 

smile or weep — 



A Woman sitting on the sculptured disk 
Of the broad earth, and feeding from 

one breast 
A human babe and a young basilisk; 
Her looks were sweet as Heaven's when 

loveliest 
In Autumn eves. The third Image was 

dressed 
In white wings swift as clouds in winter 

skies; 
Beneath his feet, 'mongst ghastliest 

forms, repressed 
Lay Faith, an obscene worm, who sought 

to rise, — 
IVhile calmly on the Sun he turned his dia- 
mond eyes. 

LI 

Beside that Image then I sate, while she 
Stood 'mid the throngs which ever ebbed 

and flowed. 
Like light amid the shadows of the sea 
Cast from one cloudless star, and on the 

crowd 
That touch which none who feels forgets 

bestowed; 
And whilst the sun returned the steadfast 

gaze 
Of the great Image, as o'er Heaven it 

glode, 



That rite had place; it ceased when sun- 
set's blaze 

Burned o'er the isles; all stood in joy and 
deep amaze — 

When in the silence of all spirits there 

Laone's voice was felt, and through the 
air 
Her thrilling gestures spoke, most elo- 
quently fair. 



* Calm art thou as yon sunset! swift and 

strong 
As new-fledged Eagles beautiful and young. 
That float among the blinding beams of 

morning; 
And underneath thy feet writhe Faith and 

Folly, 
Custom and Hell and mortal Melancholy. 
Hark! the Earth starts to hear the mighty 
warning 
Of thy voice sublime and holy; 
Its free spirits here assembled 
See thee, feel thee, know thee now; 
To thy voice their hearts have trembled, 
Like ten thousand clouds which flow 
With one wide wind as it flies! 
Wisdom ! thy irresistible children rise 
To hail thee; and the elements they chain, 
And their own will, to swell the glory of 
thy train! 



' O Spirit vast and deep as Night and 

Heaven, 
Mother and soul of all to which is given 
The light of life, the loveliness of being! 
Lo! thou dost reascend the human heart. 
Thy throne of power, almighty as thou 

wert 
In dreams of Poets old grown pale by see- 
ing 
The shade of thee ; — now millions start 
To feel thy lightnings through them 

burning! 
Nature, or God, or Love, or Pleasure, 
Or Sympathy, the sad tears turning 
To mutual smiles, a drainless treasure, 
Descends amidst us! Scorn and Hate, 
Revenge and Selfishness, are desolate! 
A hundred nations swear that there shall 

be 
Pity and Peace and Love among the good 
and free! 



CANTO FIFTH 



89 



* Eldest of things, divine Equality ! 
Wisdom and Love are but the slaves of 

thee, 
The angels of thy sway, who pour around 

thee 
Treasures from all the cells of human 

thought 
And from the Stars and from the Ocean 

brought, 
And the last living heart whose beatings 
bound thee. 
The powerful and the wise had sought 
Thy coming; thou, in light descending 
O'er the wide land which is thine own. 
Like the spring whose breath is blending 
All blasts of fragrance into one, 
Comest upon the paths of men! 
Earth bares her general bosoxu to thy ken. 
And all her children liere in glory meet 
To feed upon thy smiles, and clasp thy 
sacred feet. 



*My brethren, we are free! the plains and 

mountains, 
The gray sea-shore, the forests and the 

fountains. 
Are haunts of happiest dwellers; man and 

woman. 
Their common bondage burst, may freely 

borrow 
From lawless love a solace for their sorrow; 
For oft we still must weep, since we are 
human. 
A stormy night's serenest morrow. 
Whose showers are pity's gentle tears, 
Whose clouds are smiles of those that die 
Like infanta without hopes or fears. 
And whose beams are joys that lie 
In blended hearts, now holds dominion, — 
The dawn of mind, which, upwards on a 

pinion 
Borne, swift as sunrise, far illumines space, 
And clasps this barren world in its own 
bright embrace ! 

5 
* My brethren, we are free ! the fruits are 

glowing 
Beneath the stars, and the night-winds are 

flowing 
O'er the ripe corn, the birds and beasts are 

dreaminsr. 



Never again may blood of bird or beast 
Stain with its venomous stream a human 

feast, 
To the pure skies in accusation steaming ! 
Avenging poisons shall have ceased 
To feed disease and fear and madness; 
The dwellers of the earth and air 
Shall throng around our steps in gladness, 
Seeking their food or refuge there. 
Our toil from thought all glorious forms 

shall cull, 
To make this earth, our home, more beau- 
tiful, 
And Science, and her sister Poesy, 
Shall clothe in light the fields and cities of 
the free ! 



' Victory, Victory to the prostrate nations ! 
Bear witness. Night, and ye mute Constel- 
lations 
Who gaze on us from your crystalline cars I 
Thoughts have gone forth whose powers 

can sleep no more ! 
Victory ! Victory ! Earth's remotest shore, 
Regions which groan beneath the Antarctic 
stars, 
The green lands cradled in the roar 
Of western waves, and wildernesses 
Peopled and vast which skirt the oceans, 
Where Morning dyes her golden tresses, 
Shall soon partake our high emotions. 
Kings shall turn pale ! Almighty Fear, 
The Fiend-God, when our charmed name 

he hear, 
Shall fade like shadow from his thousand 

fanes, 
While Truth with Joy enthroned o'er his 
lost empire reigns ! ' 

LII 

Ere she had ceased, the mists of night 
entwining 

Their dim woof floated o'er the infinite 
throng; 

She, like a spirit through the darkness 
shining. 

In tones whose sweetness silence did pro- 
long 

As if to lingering winds they did belong, 

Poured forth her inmost soul: a passion- 
ate speech 

With wild and thrilling pauses woven 
among, 



90 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Which whoso heard was mute, for it 
could teach 
To rapture like her own all listening hearts 
to reach. 

LIII 

Her voice was as a mountain stream 
which sweeps 

The withered leaves of autumn to the 
lake, 

And in some deep and narrow bay then 
sleeps 

In the shadow of the shores; as dead 
leaves wake, 

Under the wave, in flowers and herbs 
which make 

Those green depths beautiful when skies 
are blue. 

The multitude so moveless did par- 
take 

Such living change, and kindling mur- 
murs flew 
As o'er that speechless calm delight and 
wonder grew. 

LIV 

Over the plain the throngs were scattered 

then 
In groups around the fires, which from 

the sea 
Even to the gorge of the first mountain 

glen 
Blazed wide and far; the banquet of the 

free 
Was spread beneath many a dark cypress 

tree, 
Beneath whose spires, which swayed in 

the red flame. 
Reclining as they ate, of Liberty 
And Hope and Justice and Laone's name 
Earth's children did a woof of happy con- 
verse frame. 

LV 

Their feast was such as Earth, the gen- 
eral mother, 

Pours from her fairest bosom, when she 
smiles 

In the embrace of Autumn; to each 
other 

As when some parent fondly reconciles 

Her warring children — she their wrath 
beguiles 

With her own sustenance, they relenting 
weep — 



Such was this Festival, which from their 

isles 
And continents and winds and oceans 

deep 
All shapes might throng to share that fly 

or walk or creep; 

LVI 

Might share in peace and innocence, for 

gore 
Or poison none this festal did pollute. 
But, piled on high, an overflowing store 
Of pomegranates and citrous, fairest 

fruit, 
Melons, and dates, and figs, and many a 

root 
Sweet and sustaining, and bright grapes 

ere yet 
Accursed fire their mild juice could trans- 

nmte 
Into a mortal bane, and brown corn 

set 
In baskets; with pure streams their thirst- 
ing lips they wet. 

LVII 

Laone had descended from the shrine. 

And every deepest look and holiest mind 

Fed on her form, though now those tones 
divine 

Were silent as she passed; she did un- 
wind 

Her veil, as with the crowds of her own 
kind 

She mixed ; some impulse made my heart 
refrain 

From seeking her that night, so I re- 
clined 

Amidst a group, where on the utmost 
plain 
A festal watch-fire burned beside the dusky 
main. 

LVIII 

And joyous was our feast; pathetic talk, 
And wit, and harmony of choral strains, 
While far Orion o'er the waves did 

walk 
That flow among the isles, held us in 

chains 
Of sweet captivity which none disdains 
Who feels; but, when his zone grew dim 

in mist 
Which clothes the Ocean's bosom, o'er 

the plains 



CANTO SIXTH 



91 



The multitudes went homeward to their 
rest, 
Which that delightful day with its own 
shadow blest. 



CANTO SIXTH 



Beside the dimness of the glimmering 
sea, 

Weaving swift language from impas- 
sioned themes. 

With that dear friend I lingered, who to 
me 

So late had been restored, beneath the 
gleams 

Of the silver stars; and ever in soft 
dreams 

Of future love and peace sweet converse 
lapped 

Our willing fancies, till the pallid beams 

Of the last watch-fire fell, and darkness 
wrapped 
The waves, and each bright chain of float- 
ing fire was snapped, 

II 

And till we came even to the City's wall 
And the great gate. Then, none knew 

whence or why. 
Disquiet on the multitudes did fall; 
And first, one pale and breathless passed 

us by, 
And stared and spoke not; then with 

piercing cry 
A troop of wild-eyed women — by the 

shrieks 
Of their own terror driven, tumultuously 
Hither and thither hurrying with pale 

cheeks — 
Each one from fear unknown a sudden 

refuge seeks 

III 

Then, rallying cries of treason and of 

danger 
Resounded, and — * They come ! to arms ! 

to arms! 
The Tyrant is amongst us, and the 

stranger 
Comes to enslave us in his name ! to 

arms ! ' 
In vain: for Panic, the pale fiend who 

charms 



Strength to forswear her right, those 

millions swept 
Like waves before the tempest. These 

alarms 
Came to me, as to know their cause I 

leapt 
On the gate's turret, and in rage and grief 

and scorn I wept ! 

IV 

For to the north I saw the town on fire, 

And its red light made morning pallid 
now. 

Which burst over wide Asia; — louder, 
higher. 

The yells of victory and the screams of 
woe 

I heard approach, and saw the throng 
below 

Stream through the gates like foam- 
wrought waterfalls 

Fed from a thousand storms — the fear- 
ful glow 

Of bombs flares overhead — at intervals 
The red artillery's bolt mangling among 
them falls. 



And now the horsemen come — and all 

was done 
Swifter than I have spoken — I beheld 
Their red swords flash in the unrisen sun. 
I rushed among the rout to have repelled 
That miserable flight — one moment 

quelled 
By voice, and looks, and eloquent despair, 
As if reproach from their own hearts 

withheld 
Their steps, they stood; but soon cam*/ 

pouring there 
New multitudes, and did those rallied 

bands o'erbear. 

VI 

I strove, as drifted on some cataract 

By irresistible streams some wretch 
might strive 

Who hears its fatal roar; the files com- 
pact 

Whelmed me, and from the gate availed 
to drive 

With quickening impulse, as each bolt 
did rive 

Their ranks with bloodier chasm; intc 
the plain 



92 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Disgorged at length the dead and the 

alive 
In one dread mass were parted, and the 

stain 
Of blood from mortal steel fell o'er the 

fields like rain. 

VII 

For now the despot's bloodhounds with 
their prey, 

Unarmed and unaware, were gorging 
deep 

Their gluttony of death ; the loose ar- 
ray 

Of horsemen o'er the wide fields murder- 
ing sweep, 

And with loud laughter for their Tyrant 
reap 

A harvest sown with other hopes; the 
while, 

Far overhead, ships from Propontis keep 

A killing rain of fire. When the waves 
smile 
is sudden earthquakes light many a vol- 
cano isle, 

VIII 

Thus sudden, unexpected feast was 

spread 
For the carrion fowls of Heaven. I saw 

the sight — 
I moved — I lived — as o'er the heaps of 

dead. 
Whose stony eyes glared in the morning 

light, 
I trod; to me there came no thought of 

flight, 
But with loud cries of scorn, which 

whoso heard 
That dreaded death felt in his veins the 

might 
Of virtuous shame return, the crowd I 

stirred. 
And desperation's hope in many hearts re- 
curred. 

IX 

A band of brothers gathering round me 

made, 
Although unarmed, a steadfast front, and, 

still 
Retreating, with stern looks beneath the 

shade 
Of gathered eyebrows, did the victors 

fill 



With doubt even in success; deliberate 
will 

Inspired our growing troop; not over- 
thrown. 

It gained the shelter of a grassy hill, — 

And ever still our comrades were hewn 
down, 
And their defenceless limbs beneath our 
footsteps strown. 

X 

Immovably we stood; in joy I found 
Beside me then, firm as a giant pine 
Among the mountain vapors driven 

around. 
The old man whom I loved; his eyes 

divine 
With a mild look of courage answered 

mine, 
And my young friend was near, and 

ardently 
His hand grasped mine a moment; now 

the line 
Of war extended, to our rallying cry 
As myriads flocked in love and brotherhood 

to die. 

XI 

For ever while the sun was climbing 

Heaven 
The horseman hewed our unarmed 

myriads down 
Safely, though when by thirst of carnage 

driven 
Too near, those slaves were swiftly over- 
thrown 
By hundreds leaping on them; flesh and 

bone 
Soon made our ghastly ramparts; then 

the shaft 
Of the artillery from the sea was thrown 
More fast and fiery, and the conquerors 

laughed 
In pride to hear the wind our screams of 

torment waft, 

XII 

For on one side alone the hill gave shel- 
ter. 

So vast that phalanx of unconquered 
men. 

And there the living in the blood did 
welter 

Of the dead and dying, which in that 
green glen. 



CANTO SIXTH 



93 



Like stifled torrents, made a plashy 

fen 
Under the feet. Thus was the butchery 

waged 
While the sun clomb Heaven's eastern 

steep; but, when 
It 'gan to sink, a fiercer combat raged, 
For in more doubtful strife the armies were 

engaged. 

XIII 

Within a cave upon the hill were found 
A bundle of rude pikes, the instrument 
Of those who war but on their native 

ground 
For natural rights; a shout of joyance, 

sent 
Even from our hearts, the wide air 

pierced and rent. 
As those few arms the bravest and the 

best 
Seized, and each sixth, thus armed, did 

now present 
A line which covered and sustained the 

rest, 
A confident phalanx which the foes on 

every side invest. 

XIV 

That onset turned the foes to flight al- 
most; 

But soon they saw their present strength, 
and knew 

That coming night would to our resolute 
host 

Bring victory; so, dismounting, close they 
drew 

Their glittering files, and then the com- 
bat grew 

Unequal but most horrible; and ever 

Our myriads, whom the swift bolt over- 
threw, 

Or the red sword, failed like a mountain 
river 
Which rushes forth in foam to sink in 
sands forever. 

XV 

Sorrow and shame, to see with their own 

kind 
Our human brethren mix, like beasts of 

blood. 
To mutual ruin armed by one behind 
Who sits and scoffs! — that friend so 

mild and good, 



Who like its shadow near my youth had 

stood, 
Was stabbed! — my old preserver's 

hoary hair, 
With the flesh clinging to its roots, was 

strewed 
Under my feet! I lost all sense or care. 
And like the rest I grew desperate and 

unaware. 

XVI 

The battle became ghastlier; in the 

midst 
I paused, and saw how ugly and how fell, 
O Hate! thou art, even when thy life 

thou shedd'st 
For love. The ground in many a little 

dell 
Was broken, up and down whose steeps 

befell 
Alternate victory and defeat; and there 
The combatants with rage most horrible 
Strove, and their eyes started with crack- 
ing stare. 
And impotent their tongues they lolled 
into the air, 

XVII 

Flaccid and foamy, like a mad dog's 

hanging. 
Want, and Moon-madness, and the pest's 

swift Bane, 
When its shafts smite — while yet its 

bow is twanging — 
Have each their mark and sign, some 

ghastly stain; 
And this was thine, O War ! of hate and 

pain 
Thou loathM slave! I saw all shapes of 

death. 
And ministered to many, o'er the plain 
While carnage in the sunbeam's warmth 

did seethe. 
Till Twilight o'er the east wove her seren- 

est wreath. 

XVIII 

The few who yet survived, resolute and 

firm. 
Around me fought. At the decline of 

day, 
Winding above the mountain's snowy 

term. 
New banners shone; they quivered If 

the ray 



94 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Of the sun's unseen orb; ere night the 

array 
Of fresh troops hemmed us in — of those 

brave bands 
I soon survived alone — and now I lay 
Vanquished and faint, the grasp of 

bloody hands 
1 felt, and saw on high the glare of falling 

brands, 

XIX 

When on my foes a sudden terror 

came, 
And they fled, scattering. — Lo ! with 

reinless speed 
A black Tartarian horse of giant frame, 
Comes trampling over the dead; the 

living bleed 
Beneath the hoofs of that tremendous 

steed, 
On which, like to an Angel, robed in 

white. 
Sate one waving a sword; the hosts re- 
cede 
And fly, as through their ranks, with 

awful might 
Sweeps in the shadow of eve that Phantom 

swift and bright; 

XX 

And its path made a solitude. I rose 
And marked its coming; it relaxed its 

course 
As it approached me, and the wind that 

flows 
Through night bore accents to mine ear 

whose force 
Might create smiles in death. The Tar- 
tar horse 
Paused, and I saw the shape its might 

which swayed. 
And heard her musical pants, like the 

sweet source 
Of waters in the desert, as she said. 
Mount with me, Laon, now ' — I rapidly 

obeyed. 

XXI 

Then, ' Away ! away ! ' she cried, and 

stretched her sword 
As 't were a scourge over the courser's 

head. 
And lightly shook the reins. We spake 

no word. 
But like the vapor of the tempest fled 



Over the plain; her dark hair was 

dispread 
Like the pine's locks upon the lingering 

blast; 
Over mine eyes its shadowy strings it 

spread 
Fitfully, and the hills and streams fled 

fast. 
As o'er their glimmering forms the steed't 

broad shadow passed. 

XXII 

And his hoofs ground the rocks to fire 

and dust. 
His strong sides made the torrents rise 

in spray. 
And turbulence, as of a whirlwind's gust. 
Surrounded us; — and still away, away. 
Through the desert night we sped, while 

she alway 
Gazed on a mountain which we neared, 

whose crest, 
Crowned with a marble ruin, in the ray 
Of the obscure stars gleamed; its rugged 

breast 
The steed strained up, and then his impulse 

did arrest. 

XXIII 

A rocky hill which overhung the 

Ocean: — 
From that lone ruin, when the steed that 

panted 
Paused, might be heard the murmur of 

the motion 
Of waters, as in spots forever haunted 
By the choicest winds of Heaven which 

are enchanted 
To music by the wand of Solitude, 
That wizard wild, — and the far tents 

implanted 
Upon the plain, be seen by those who 

stood 
Thence marking the dark shore of Ocean's 

curved flood. 

XXIV 

One moment these were heard and seer 

— another 
Passed; and the two who stood beneath 

that night 
Each only heard or saw or felt the other. 
As from the lofty steed she did alight, 
Cythna (for, from the eyes whose deepest 

light 



CANTO SIXTH 



95 



Of love and sadness made my lips feel 

pale 
With influence strange of mournfullest 

delight, 
My own sweet Cythna looked) with joy 

did quail, 
And felt her strength in tears of human 

weakness fail. 

XXV 

And for a space in my embrace she 

rested, 
Her head on my unquiet heart reposing, 
While my faint arms her languid frame 

invested; 
At length she looked on me, and, half 

unclosing 
Her tremulous lips, said, * Friend, thy 

bands were losing 
The battle, as I stood before the King 
In bonds. I burst them then, and, swiftly 

choosing 
The time, did seize a Tartar's sword, 

and spring 
Upon his horse, and swift as on the whirl- 
wind's wing 

XXVI 

' Have thou and I been borne beyond pur- 
suer, 
And we are here.' Then, turning to the 

steed, 
She pressed the white moon on his front 

with pure 
And rose-like lips, and many a fragrant 

weed 
From the green ruin plucked that he 

might feed; 
But I to a stone seat that Maiden led, 
And, kissing her fair eyes, said, ' Thou 

hast need 
Of rest,' and I heaped up the courser's 

bed 
In a green mossy nook, with mountain 

flowers dispread. 

XXVII 

Within that ruin, where a shattered 
portal 

Looks to the eastern stars — abandoned 
now 

By man to be the home of things im- 
mortal, 

Memories, like awful ghosts which come 
and go, 



And must inherit all he builds below 

When he is gone — a hall stood; o'er 
whose roof 

Fair clinging weeds with ivy pale did 
grow. 

Clasping its gray rents with a verdurous 
woof, 
A hanging dome of leaves, a canopy moon- 
proof. 

XXVIII 

The autumnal winds, as if spell-bound, 

had made 
A natural couch of leaves in that recess, 
Which seasons none disturbed; but, in 

the shade 
Of flowering parasites, did Spring love 

to dress 
With their sweet blooms the wintry lone- 
liness 
Of those dead leaves, shedding their 

stars whene'er 
The wandering wind her nurslings might 

caress; 
Whose intertwining fingers ever there 
Made music wild and soft that filled the 

listening air. 

XXIX 

We know not where we go, or what 

sweet dream 
May pilot us through caverns strange 

and fair 
Of far and pathless passion, while the 

stream 
Of life Our bark doth on its whirlpools 

bear. 
Spreading swift wings as sails to the dim 

air; 
Nor should we seek to know, so the de- 
votion 
Of love and gentle thoughts be heard 

still there 
Louder and louder from the utmost 

Ocean 
Of universal life, attuning its commotion. 

XXX 

To the pure all things are pure! Oblivion 

wrapped 
Our spirits, and the fearful overthrow 
Of public hope was from our being 

snapped. 
Though linked years had bound it there? 

for now 



96 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



A power, a thirst, a knowledge, which 
below 

All thoughts, like light beyond the at- 
mosphere 

Clothing its clouds with grace, doth ever 
flow, 

Came on us, as we sate in silence there. 
Beneath the golden stars of the clear azure 
air; — 

XXXI 

In silence which doth follow talk that 

causes 
The baffled heart to speak with sighs 

and tears, 
When wildering passion swalloweth up 

the pauses 
Of inexpressive speech; — the youthful 

years 
Which we together passed, their hopes 

and fears. 
The blood itself which ran within our 

frames. 
That likeness of the features which en- 
dears 
The thoughts expressed by them, our 

very names, 
A.nd all the winged hours which speechless 

memory claims, 

XXXII 

Had found a voice; and ere that voice 

did pass, 
The night grew damp and dim, and, 

through a rent 
Of the ruin where we sate, from the 

morass 
A wandering Meteor by some wild wind 

sent 
Hung high in the green dome, to which 

it lent 
A faint and pallid lustre; while the 

song 
Of blasts, in which its blue hair quiver- 
ing bent. 
Strewed strangest sounds the moving 

leaves among; 
A wondrous light, the sound as of a spirit's 

tongue. 

XXXIII 

The Meteor showed the leaves on which 

we sate. 
And Cythna's glowing arms, and the 

thick ties 



Of her soft hair which bent with gath- 
ered weight 

My neck near hers; her dark and deep- 
ening eyes, 

Which, as twin phantoms of one star 
that lies 

O'er a dim well move though the star 
reposes, 

Swam in our mute and liquid ecstasies; 

Her marble brow, and eager lips, like 
roses. 
With their own fragrance pale, which 
Spring but half uncloses. 

XXXIV 

The Meteor to its far morass returned. 
The beating of our veins one interval 
Made still; and then I felt the blood that 

burned 
Within her frame mingle with mine, and 

fall 
Around my heart like fire; and over 

all 
A mist was spread, the sickness of a 

deep 
And speechless swoon of joy, as might 

befall 
Two disunited spirits when they leap 
In union from this earth's obscure and 

fading sleep. 

XXXV 

Was it one moment that confounded 

thus 
All thought, all sense, all feeling, into 

one 
Unutterable power, which shielded us 
Even from our own cold looks, when we 

had gone 
Into a wide and wild oblivion 
Of tumult and of tenderness ? or now 
Had ages, such as make the moon and 

sun, 
The seasons, and mankind their changes 
know. 
Left fear and time unfelt by us alone be- 
low ? 

XXXVI 

I know not. What are kisses whose fire 

clasps 
The failing heart in languishment, or 

limb 
Twined within limb ? or the quick dying 

gasps 



CANTO SIXTH 



97 



Of the life meeting, when the faint eyes 


Few were the living hearts which could 


swim 


unite 


Through tears of a wide mist boundless 


Like ours, or celebrate a bridal night 


and dim. 


With such close sympathies, for they 


In one caress ? What is the strong con- 


had sprung 


trol 


From linked youth, and from the gentle 


Which leads the heart that dizzy steep 


might 


to climb 


Of earliest love, delayed and cherished 


Where far over the world those vapors 


long. 


roll 


Which common hopes and fears made, like 


Which blend two restless frames in one re- 


a tempest, strong. 


posing soul ? 


XL 


XXXVII 


And such is Nature's law divine that 


It is the shadow which doth float unseen, 


those 


But not unfelt, o'er blind mortality, 


Who grow together cannot choose but 


Whose divine darkness fled not from 


love. 


that green 


If faith or custom do not interpose. 


And lone recess, where lapped in peace 


Or common slavery mar what else might 


did lie 


move 


Our linked frames, till, from the chan- 


All gentlest thoughts. As in the sacred 


ging sky 


grove 


That night and still another day had 


Which shades the springs of Ethiopian 


fled; 


Nile, 


And then I saw and felt. The moon was 


That living tree which, if the arrowy 


high. 


dove 


And clouds, as of a coming storm, were 


Strike with her shadow, shrinks in fear 


spread 


awhile, 


Under its orb, — loud winds were gather- 


But its own kindred leaves clasps while the 


ing overhead. 


sunbeams smile, 


XXXVIII 


XLI 


Cythna's sweet lips seemed lurid in the 


And clings to them when darkness may 


moon. 


dissever 


Her fairest limbs with the night wind 


The close caresses of all duller plants 


were chill, 


Which bloom on the wide earth ; — thus 


And her dark tresses were all loosely 


we forever 


strewn 


Were linked, for love had nursed us in 


O'er her pale bosom ; all within was still. 


the haunts 


And the sweet peace of joy did almost 


Where knowledge from its secret source 


fill 


enchants 


The depth of her unfathomable look; 


Young hearts with the fresh music of its 


And we sate calmly, though that rocky 


springing, 


hill 


Ere yet its gathered flood feeds human 


The waves contending in its caverns 


wants 


strook, 


As the great Nile feeds Egypt, — ever 


For they foreknew the storm, and the gray 


flinging 


ruin shook. 


Light on the woven boughs which o'er its 


XXXIX 


waves are swinging. 


There we unheeding sate in the com- 


XLII 


munion 


The tones of Cythna's voice like echoes 


Of interchanged vows, which, with a rite 


were 


Of faith most sweet and sacred, stamped 


Of those far murmuring streams; they 


our union. 


rose and fell, 



98 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Mixed with mine own in the tempestuous 

air; 
And so we sate, until our talk befell 
Of the late ruin, swift and horrible. 
And how those seeds of hope might yet 

be sown, 
Whose fruit is Evil's mortal poison. 

Well, 
For us, this ruin made a watch-tower 

lone. 
But Cythna's eyes looked faint, and now 

two days were gone 

XLIII 

Since she had food. Therefore I did 

awaken 
The Tartar steed, who, from his ebon 

mane 
Soon as the clinging slumbers he had 

shaken, 
Bent his thin head to seek the brazen 

rein. 
Following me obediently. W^ith pain 
Of heart so deep and dread that one 

caress. 
When lips and heart refuse to part again 
Till they have told their fill, could scarce 

express 
The anguish of her mute and fearful ten- 
derness, 

XLIV 

Cythna beheld me part, as I bestrode 
That willing steed. The tempest and the 

night. 
Which gave my path its safety as I rode 
Down the ravine of rocks, did soon unite 
The darkness and the tumult of their 

might 
Borne on all winds. — Far through the 

streaming rain 
Floating, at intervals the garments white 
Of Cythna gleamed, and her voice once 

again 
Came to me on the gust, and soon I reached 

the plain. 

XLV 

I dreaded not the tempest, nor did he 

Who bore me, but his eyeballs wide and 
red 

Turned on the lightning's cleft exult- 
ingly; 

And when the earth beneath his tame- 
less tread 



Shook with the sullen thunder, he would 
spread 

His nostrils to the blast, and joyously 

Mock the fierce peal with neighings; — 
thus we sped 

O'er the lit plain, and soon I could de- 
scry 
Where Death and Fire had gorged the 
spoil of victory. 

XLVI 

There was a desolate village in a wood. 

Whose bloom-inwoven leaves now scat- 
tering fed 

The hungry storm; it was a place of 
blood, 

A heap of hearthless walls; — the flames 
were dead 

Within those dwellings now, — the life 
had fled 

From all those corpses now, — but the 
wide sky 

Flooded with lightning was ribbed over- 
head 

By the black rafters, and around did 
lie 
Women and babes and men, slaughtered 
confusedly. 

XLVII 

Beside the fountain in the market-place 
Dismounting, I beheld those corpses 

stare 
W^ith horny eyes upon each other's face, 
And on the earth, and on the vacant 

air, 
And upon me, close to the waters where 
I stooped to slake my thirst; — I shrank 

to taste. 
For the salt bitterness of blood was 

there! 
But tied the steed beside, and sought in 

haste 
If any yet survived amid that ghastly waste. 

XLVIII 

No living thing was there beside one 

woman 
Whom I found wandering in the streets, 

and she 
Was withered from a likeness of aught 

human 
Into a fiend, by some strange misery; 
Soon as she heard my steps she leaped 

on me. 



CANTO SIXTH 



99 



And glued her burning lips to mine, and 

laughed 
With a loud, long and frantic laugh of 

glee, 
And cried, ' Now, mortal, thou hast 

deeply quaffed 
The Plague's blue kisses — soon millions 

shall pledge the draught! 

XLIX 

* My name is Pestilence ; this bosom dry 
Once fed two babes — a sister and a 

brother; 
When I came home, one in the blood did 

lie 
Of three death-wounds — the flames had 

ate the other! 
Since then I have no longer been a 

mother, 
But I am Pestilence; hither and thither 
I flit about, that I may slay and smother; 
All lips which I have kissed must surely 

wither, 
But Death's — if thou art he, we '11 go to 

work together! 



' What seek'st thou here? the moonlight 

comes in flashes; 
The dew is rising dankly from the dell; 
'T will moisten her! and thou shalt see 

the gashes 
In my sweet boy, now full of worms. But 

tell 
First what thou seek'st.' — ' I seek for 

food.' — * 'T is well, 
Thou shalt have food. Famine, my par- 
amour, 
Waits for us at the feast — cruel and fell 
Is Famine, but he drives not from his 

door 
Those whom these lips have kissed, alone. 

No more, no more! ' 

LI 

As thus she spake, she grasped me with 

the strength 
Of madness, and by many a ruined 

hearth 
She led, and over many a corpse. At 

length 
We came to a lone hut, where on the 

earth 
Which made its floor she in her ghastly 

mirth, 



Gathering from all those homes now 

desolate. 
Had piled three heaps of loaves, making 

a dearth 
Among the dead — round which she set 

in state 
A ring of cold, stiff babes; silent and stark 

they sate. 

LII 

She leaped upon a pile, and lifted high 
Her mad looks to the lightning, and 

cried, ' Eat! 
Share the great feast — to-morrow we 

must die! ' 
And then she spurned the loaves with 

her pale feet 
Towards her bloodless guests; — that 

sight to meet. 
Mine eyes and my heart ached, and but 

that she 
Who loved me did with absent looks 

defeat 
Despair, I might have raved in sympa- 

tby; 
But now I took the food that woman of- 
fered me; 

LIII 

And vainly having with her madness 

striven 
If I might win her to return with me. 
Departed. In the eastern beams of 

Heaven 
The lightning now grew pallid, rapidly 
As by the shore of the tempestuous sea 
The dark steed bore me; and the moun- 
tain gray 
Soon echoed to his hoofs, and I could 

see 
Cythna among the rocks, where she al- 
way 
Had sate with anxious eyes fixed on the 
lingering day. 

LIV 

And joy was ours to meet. She was 

most pale. 
Famished and wet and weary; so I cast 
My arms around her, lest her steps 

should fail 
As to our home we went, — and, thus 

embraced. 
Her full heart seemed a deeper joy to 

taste 



lOO 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Than e'er the prosperous know; the 

steed behind 
Trod peacefully along the mountain 

waste; 
We reached our home ere morning could 

unbind 
Night's latest veil, and on our bridal couch 

reclined. 

LV 

Her chilled heart having cherished in 
my bosom, 

And sweetest kisses past, we two did 
share 

Our peaceful meal; as an autumnal blos- 
som. 

Which spreads its shrunk leaves in the 
sunny air 

After cold showers, like rainbows woven 
there, 

Thus in her lips and cheeks the vital 
spirit 

Mantled, and in her eyes an atmosphere 

Of health and hope; and sorrow lan- 
guished near it. 
And fear, and all that dark despondence 
doth inherit. 



CANTO SEVENTH 
I 

So we sate joyous as the morning ray 
Which fed upon the wrecks of night and 

storm 
Now lingering on the winds; light airs 

did play 
Among the dewy weeds, the sun was 

warm, 
And we sate linked in the inwoven charm 
Of converse and caresses sweet and 

deep — 
Speechless caresses, talk that might dis- 
arm 
Time, though he wield the darts of 

death and sleep, 
A.nd those thrice mortal barbs in his own 

poison steep. 

II 

I told her of my sufferings and my mad- 
ness. 

And how, awakened from that dreamy 
mood 

By Liberty's uprise, the strength of 
gladness 



Came to my spirit in my solitude. 

And all that now I was, while tears pur- 
sued 

Each other down her fair and listening 
cheek 

Fast as the thoughts which fed them, 
like a flood 

From sunbright dales; and when I ceased 
to speak, 
Her accents soft and sweet the pausing air 
did wake. 

Ill 

She told me a strange tale of strange 
endurance. 

Like broken memories of many a heart 

Woven into one; to which no firm assur- 
ance. 

So wild were they, could her own faith 
impart. 

She said that not a tear did dare to start 

From the swoln brain, and that her 
thoughts were firm, 

When from all mortal hope she did de- 
part. 

Borne by those slaves across the Ocean's 
term, 
And that she reached the port without one 
fear infirm. 

IV 

One was she among many there, the 

thralls 
Of the cold Tyrant's cruel lust; and they 
Laughed mournfully in those polluted 

halls; 
But she was calm and sad, musing alway 
On loftiest enterprise, till on a day 
The Tyrant heard her singing to her 

lute 
A wild and sad and spirit-thrilling lay, 
Like winds that die in wastes — one mo- 
ment mute 
The evil thoughts it made which did his 
breast pollute. 



Even when he saw her wondrous loveli- 
ness. 

One moment to great Nature's sacred 
power 

He bent, and was no longer passionless; 

But when he bade her to his secret bower 

Be borne, a loveless victim, and she 
tore 



CANTO SEVENTH 



lOI 



Her locks in agony, and her words of 

flame 
And mightier looks availed not, then he 

bore 
Again his load of slavery, and became 
A. king, a heartless beast, a pageant and a 

name. 

VI 

She told me what a loathsome agony 
Is that when selfishness mocks love's 

delight, 
Foul as in dreams, most fearful imagery. 
To dally with the mowing dead; that 

night 
All torture, fear, or horror made seem 

light 
Which the soul dreams or knows, and 

when the day 
Shone on her awful frenzy, from the 

sight, 
Where like a Spirit in fleshly chains she 

lay 
Struggling, aghast and pale the Tyrant fled 

away. 

VII 

Her madness was a beam of light, a 
power 

Which dawned through the rent soul; 
and words it gave. 

Gestures and looks, such as in whirl- 
winds bore 

(Which might not be withstood, whence 
none could save) 

All who approached their sphere, like 
some calm wave 

Vexed into whirlpools by the chasms be- 
neath; 

And sympathy made each attendant slave 

Fearless and free, and they began to 
breathe 
Deep curses, like the voice of flames far 
underneath. 

VIII 

The King felt pale upon his noon-day 

throne. 
At night two slaves he to her chamber 

sent; 
One was a green and wrinkled eunuch, 

grown 
From human shape into an instrument 
Of all things ill — distorted, bowed and 

bent; 



The other was a wretch from infancy 
Made dumb by poison; who nought knew 

or meant 
But to obey; from the fire isles came he, 
A diver lean and strong, of Oman's coral 

sea. 

IX 

They bore her to a bark, and the swift 

stroke 
Of silent rowers clove the blue moonlight 

seas. 
Until upon their path the morning broke; 
They anchored then, where, be there 

calm or breeze. 
The gloomiest of the drear Symplegades 
Shakes with the sleepless surge; the 

^thiop there 
Wound Lis long arms around her, and 

with knees 
Like iron clasped her feet, and plunged 

with her 
Among the closing waves out of the bound- 
less air. 

X 

' Swift as an eagle stooping from the plain 

Of morning light into some shadowy 
wood. 

He plunged through the green silence of 
the main. 

Through many a cavern which the eter- 
nal flood 

Had scooped as dark lairs for its monster 
brood ; 

And among mighty shapes which fled in 
wonder. 

And among mightier shadows which pur- 
sued 

His heels, he wound; until the dark rocks 
under 
He touched a golden chain — a sound arose 
like thunder, 

XI 

' A stunning clang of massive bolts re- 
doubling 

Beneath the deep — a burst of waters 
driven 

As from the roots of the sea, raging and 
bubbling: 

And in that roof of crags a space was 
riven 

Through which there shone the emerald 
beams of heaven, 



I02 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Shot through the lines of many waves 
inwoven, 

Like sunlight through acacia woods at 
even, 

Through which his way the diver having 
cloven 
Passed like a spark sent up out of a burn- 
ing oven. 

XII 

* And then,' she said, ' he laid me in a cave 
Above the waters, by that chasm of sea, 
A fountain round and vast, in which the 

wave 

Imprisoned, boiled and leaped perpet- 
ually, 

Down which, one moment resting, he did 
flee, 

Winning the adverse depth; that spacious 
cell 

Like an hupaithric temple wide and high, 

Whose aery dome is inaccessible, 
Was pierced with one round cleft through 
which the sunbeams fell. 

XIII 

* Below, the fountain's brink was richly 

paven 
With the deep's wealth, coral, and pearl, 

and sand 
Like spangling gold, and purple shells 

engraven 
With mystic legends by no mortal hand. 
Left there when, thronging to the moon's 

command. 
The gathering waves rent the Hesperian 

gate 
Of mountains; and on such bright floor 

did stand 
Columns, and shapes like statues, and 

the state 
Of kingless thrones, which Earth did in her 

heart create. 

XIV 

' The fiend of madness which had made 

its prey 
Of my poor heart was lulled to sleep 

awhile. 
There was an interval of many a day; 
And a sea-eagle brought me food the 

while. 
Whose nest was built in that untrodden 

isle, 
And who to be the jailer had been taught 



Of that strange dungeon; as a friend 

whose smile 
Like light and rest at morn and even is 

sought 
That wild bird was to me, till madness 

misery brought : — 

XV 

' The misery of a madness slow and creep- 

Which made the earth seem fire, the sea 

seem air. 
And the white clouds of noon which oft 

were sleeping 
In the blue heaven so beautiful and fair, 
Like hosts of ghastly shadows hovering 

there ; 
And the sea-eagle looked a fiend who 

bore 
Thy mangled limbs for food ! — thus all 

things were 
Transformed into the agony which I 

wore 
Even as a poisoned robe around my bosom's 

core. 

XVI 

* Again I knew the day and night fast 

fleeing, 
The eagle and the fountain and the air; 
Another frenzy came — there seemed a 

being 
Within me — a strange load my heart 

did bear. 
As if some living thing had made its lair 
Even in the fountains of my life; — a 

long 
And wondrous vision wrought from my 

despair, 
Then grew, like sweet reality among 
Dim visionary woes, an unreposing throng. 

XVII 

* Methought I was about to be a mother. 
Month after month went by, and still I 

dreamed 
That we should soon be all to one another, 
I and my child; and still new pulses 

seemed 
To beat beside my heart, and still I 

deemed 
There was a babe within — and when the 

rain 
Of winter through the rifted cavern 

streamed. 



CANTO SEVENTH 



103 



Methought, after a lapse of lingering 
pain, 
I saw that lovely shape which near my 
heart had lain. 

XVIII 

' It was a babe, beautiful from its birth, — 
It was like thee, dear love! its eyes were 

thine, 
Its brow, its lips, and so upon the earth 
It laid its fingers as now rest on mine 
Thine own, beloved! — 'twas a dream 

divine; 
Even to remember how it fled, how swift. 
How utterly, might make the heart re- 
pine, — 
Though 't was a dream.' — Then Cy thna 
did uplift 
Her looks on mine, as if some doubt she 
sought to shift — 

XIX 

A doubt which would not flee, a tender- 
ness 

Of questioning grief, a source of throng- 
ing tears; 

Which having passed, as one whom sobs 
oppress 

She spoke : * Yes, in the wilderness of 
years 

Her memory aye like a green home ap- 
pears. 

She sucked her fill even at this breast, 
sweet love, 

For many months. I had no mortal 
fears ; 

Methought I felt her lips and breath ap- 
prove 
It was a human thing which to my bosom 
clove. 

XX 

'I watched the dawn of her first smiles; 

and soon 
When zenith stars were trembling on the 

wave, 
Or when the beams of the invisible moon 
Or sun from many a prism within the 

cave 
Their gem-born shadows to the water 

gave, 
Her looks would hunt them, and with 

outspread hand. 
From the swift lights which might that 

fountain pave, 



She would mark one, and laugh when, 
that command 
Slighting, it lingered there, and could not 
understand. 



XXI 

' Methought her looks began to talk with 
me; 

And no articulate sounds, but something 
sweet 

Her lips would frame, — so sweet it 
could not be 

That it was meaningless; her touch would 
meet 

Mine, and our pulses calmly flow and 
beat 

In response while we slept; and, on a day 

When I was happiest in that strange re- 
treat, 

With heaps of golden shells we two did 

Both infants, weaving wings for time's per- 
petual way. 

XXII 

* Ere night, methought, her waning eyes 

were grown 
Weary with joy — and, tired with our 

delight, 
We, on the earth, like sister twins lay 

down 
On one fair mother's bosom : — from that 

night 
She fled, — like those illusions clear and 

bright. 
Which dwell in lakes, when the red moon 

on high 
Pause ere it wakens tempest; and her 

flight, 
Though 't was the death of brainless fan- 
tasy. 
Yet smote my lonesome heart more than 

all misery. 

XXIII 

* It seemed that in the dreary night the 

diver 
Who brought me thither came again, 

and bore 
My child away. I saw the waters quiver, 
When he so swiftly sunk, as once before; 
Then morning came — it shone even as 

of yore, 
But I was changed — the very life was 

gone 



I04 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Out of my heart — I wasted more and 


Spreading his azure sail where breath of 


more, 


heaven 


Day after day, and, sitting there alone, 


Descended not, among the waves and 


V^exed the inconstant waves with my per- 


whirlpools driven. 


petual moan. 






XXVII 


XXIV 


* And when the Eagle came, that lovely 


* I was no longer mad, and yet methought 


thing, 


My breasts were s woln and changed : — 


Oaring with rosy feet its silver boat, 


in every vein 


Fled near me as for shelter; on slow 


The blood stood still one moment, while 


wing 


that thought 


The Eagle hovering o'er his prey did 


Was passing — with a gush of sickening 


float; 


pain 


But when he saw that I with fear did 


It ebbed even to its withered springs 


note 


again; 


His purpose, proffering my own food to 


When my wan eyes in stern resolve I 


him. 


turned 


The eager plumes subsided on his 


From that most strange delusion, which 


throat — 


would fain 


He came where that bright child of sea 


Have waked the dream for which my 


did swim, 


spirit yearned 


And o'er it cast in peace his shadow broad 


W^ith more than human love, — then left it 


and dim. 


unreturned. 






XXVIII 


XXV 


' This wakened me, it gave me human 


* So now my reason was restored to me 


strengtli; 


I struggled with that dream, which like 


And hope, I know not whence or where- 


a beast 


fore, rose. 


Most fierce and beauteous in my mem- 


But I resumed my ancient powers at 


ory 


length ; 


Had made its lair, and on my heart did 


My spirit felt again like one of those, 


feast ; 


Like thine, whose fate it is to make the 


But all that cave and all its shapes, pos- 


woes 


sessed 


Of humankind their prey. What was 


By thoughts which could not fade, re- 


this cave ? 


newed each one 


Its deep foundation no firm purpose 


Some smile, some look, some gesture 


knows 


which had blessed 


Immutable, resistless, strong to save. 


Me heretofore; I, sitting there alone, 


Like mind while yet it mocks the all-de- 


Vexed the inconstant waves with my per- 


vouring grave. 


petual moan. 


XXIX 


XXVI 


* And where was Laon ? might my heart 


« Time passed, I know not whether months 


be dead. 


or years; 


While that far dearer heart could move 


For day, nor night, nor change of seasons 


and be? 


made 


Or whilst over the earth the pall was 


Its note, but thoughts and unavailing 


spread 


tears ; 


Which I had sworn to rend ? I might 


And I became at last even as a shade, 


be free. 


A smoke, a cloud on which the winds 


Could I but win that friendly bird to me 


have preyed, 


To bring me ropes; and long in vain I 


Till it be thin as air; until, one even, 


sought 


A Nautilus upon the fountain played, 


By intercourse of mutual imagerj 



CANTO SEVENTH 



loS 



Of objects if such aid he could be taught; 
But fruit and flowers and boughs, yet never 
ropes he brought. 

XXX 

* We live in our own world, and mine was 

made 

From glorious fantasies of hope departed ; 

Aye we are darkened with their floating 
shade, 

Or cast a lustre on them; time imparted 

Such power to me — I became fearless- 
hearted, 

My eye and voice grew firm, calm was 
my mind. 

And piercing, like the morn, now it has 
darted 

Its lustre on all hidden things behind 
Yon dim and fading clouds which load the 
weary wind. 

XXXI 

* My mind became the book through which 

I grew 
Wise in all human wisdom, and its cave. 
Which like a mine I rifled through and 

through, 
To me the keeping of its secrets gave — 
One mind, the type of all, the moveless 

wave 
Whose calm reflects all moving things 

that are. 
Necessity, and love, and life, the grave, 
And sympathy, fountains of hope and 

fear. 
Justice, and truth, and time, and the world's 

natural sphere. 

XXXIl 

* And on the sand would I make signs to 

range 
These woofs, as they were woven, of my 

thought; 
Clear elemental shapes, whose smallest 

change 
A subtler language within language 

wrought — 
The key of truths which once were dimly 

taught 
In old Crotona; and sweet melodies 
Of love in that lorn solitude I caught 
From mine own voice in dream, when 

thy dear eyes 
3hone through my sleep, and did that utter- 
ance harmonize. 



XXXIII 

' Thy songs were winds whereon I fled at 

will. 
As in a winged chariot, o'er the plain 
Of crystal youth; and thou wert there to 

fill 
My heart with joy, and there we sate 

again 
On the gray margin of the glimmering 

main, 
Happy as then but wiser far, for we 
Smiled on the flowery grave in which 

were lain 
Fear, Faith and Slavery: and mankind 

was free, 
Equal, and pure, and wise, in Wisdom's 

prophecy. 

XXXIV 

' For to my will my fancies were as slaves 

To do their sweet and subtle minis- 
tries ; 

And oft from that bright fountain's 
shadowy waves 

They would make human throngs gather 
and rise 

To combat with my overflowing eyes 

And voice made deep with passion; — 
thus I grew 

Familiar with the shock and the sur- 
prise 

And war of earthly minds, from which I 
drew 
The power which has been mine to frame 
their thoughts anew. 

XXXV 

' And thus my prison was the populous 

earth. 
Where I saw — even as misery dreams 

of morn 
Before the east has given its glory 

birth — 
Religion's pomp made desolate by the 

scorn 
Of Wisdom's faintest smile, and thrones 

uptorn. 
And dwellings of mild people inter- 
spersed 
With undivided fields of ripening corn, 
And love made free — a hope which we 

have nursed 
Even with our blood and tears, — until its 

glory burst. 



io6 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



XXXVI 

' All is not lost! There is some recom- 
pense 

For hope whose fountain can be thus pro- 
found, — 

Even throned Evil's splendid impotence 

Girt by its hell of power, the secret 
sound 

Of hymns to truth and freedom, the 
dread bound 

Of life and death passed fearlessly and 
well, 

Dungeons wherein the high resolve is 
found. 

Racks which degraded woman's greatness 
tell, 
And what may else be good and irresistible. 

XXXVII 

* Such are the thoughts which, like the 

fires that flare 
In storm-encompassed isles, we cherish 

yet 
In this dark ruin — such were mine even 

there ; 
As in its sleep some odorous violet, 
While yet its leaves with nightly dews 

are wet, 
Breathes in prophetic dreams of day's 

uprise. 
Or as, ere Scythian frost in fear has met 
Spring's messengers descending from the 

skies, 
The buds foreknow their life — this hope 

must ever rise. 

XXXVIII 

* So years had passed, when sudden earth- 

quake rent 
The depth of Ocean, and the cavern 

cracked 
With sound, as if the world's wide con- 
tinent 
Had fallen in universal ruin wracked, 
And through the cleft streamed in one 

cataract 
The stifling waters: — when I woke, the 

flood 
Whose banded waves that crystal cave 

had sacked 
Was ebbing round me, and my bright 

abode 
Before me yawned — a chasm desert, and 

bare, and broad. 



XXXIX 

' Above me was the sky, beneath the 

sea; 
I stood upon a point of shattered stone, 
And heard loose rocks rushing tumultu- 

ously 
With splash and shock into the deep — 

anon 
All ceased, and there was silence wide 

and lone. 
I felt that I was free! The Ocean spray 
Quivered beneath my feet, the broad 

Heaven shone 
Around, and in my hair the winds did 

play 
Lingering as they pursued their unim- 
peded way. 

XL 

' My spirit moved upon the sea like wind 
Which round some thymy cape will lag 

and hover. 
Though it can wake the still cloud, and 

unbind 
The strength of tempest. Day was al- 
most over. 
When through the fading light I could 

discover 
A ship approaching — its white sails 

were fed 
With the north wind — its moving shade 

did cover 
The twilight deep; the mariners in dread 
Cast anchor when they saw new rocks 

around them spread. 

XLI 

' And when they saw one sitting on a crag, 
They sent a boat to me; the sailors 

rowed 
In awe through many a new and fearful 

jag 
Of overhanging rock, through which 

there flowed 
The foam of streams that cannot make 

abode. 
They came and questioned me, but when 

they heard 
My voice, they became silent, and thej' 

stood 
And moved as men in whom new lovt> 

had stirred 
Deep thoughts; so to the ship we passed 

without a word. 



CANTO EIGHTH 



107 



CANTO EIGHTH 



* I SATE beside the steersman then, and 

gazing 
Upon the west cried, " Spread the sails ! 

behold ! 
The sinking moon is like a watch-tower 

blazing 
Over the mountains yet; the City of 

Gold 
Ton Cape alone does from the sight with- 
hold; 
The stream is fleet — the north breathes 

steadily 
Beneath the stars ; they tremble with the 

cold ! 
Ye cannot rest upon the dreary sea ! — 
Haste, haste to the warm home of happier 

destiny ! " 

II 

' The Mariners obeyed ; the Captain stood 
Aloof, and whispering to the Pilot said, 
" Alas, alas ! I fear we are pursued 
By wicked ghosts; a Phantom of the 

Dead, 
The night before we sailed, came to my 

bed 
In dream, like that ! " The Pilot then 

replied, 
" It cannot be — she is a human maid — 
Her low voice makes you weep — she is 

some bride, 
Or daughter of high birth — she can be 

nought beside." 

Ill 

* We passed the islets, borne by wind and 

stream, 
And as we sailed the Mariners came near 
And thronged around to listen; in the 

gleam 
Of the pale moon I stood, as one whom 

fear 
May not attaint, and my calm voice did 

rear: 
" Ye are all human — yon broad moon 

gives light 
To millions who the self-same likeness 

wear, 
Even while I speak — beneath this very 

night, 
Heir thoughts flow on like ours, in sadness 

or delight. 



IV 

' " What dream ye ? Your own hajids have 

built an home 
Even for yourselves on a beloved shore; 
For some, fond eyes are pining till they 

come — 
How they will greet him when his toils 

are o'er, 
And laughing babes rush from the well- 
known door! 
Is this your care ? ye toil for your own 

good — 
Ye feel and think — has some immortal 

power 
Such purposes ? or in a human mood 
Dream ye some Power thus builds for man 

in solitude? 



' " What is that Power ? Ye mock your- 
selves, and give 
A human heart to what ye cannot know: 
As if the cause of life could think and 

live! 
'T were as if man's own works should 

feel, and show 
The hopes and fears and thoughts from 

which they flow. 
And he be like to them. Lo ! Plague is 

free 
To waste, Blight, Poison, Earthquake, 

Hail, and Snow, 
Disease, and Want, and worse Necessity 
Of hate and ill, and Pride, and Fear, and 

Tyranny. 

VI 

* " What is that Power ? Some moon- 
struck sophist stood, 
Watching the shade from his own soul 

upthrown 
Fill Heaven and darken Earth, and in 

such mood 
The Form he saw and worshipped was 

his own, 
His likeness in the world's vast mirror 

shown ; 
And 't were an innocent dream, but that 

a faith 
Nursed by fear's dew of poison grows 

thereon. 
And that men say that Power has chosen 

Death 
On all who scorn its laws to wreak immortal 

wrath. 



io8 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



VII 

' " Men say that they themselves have heard 
and seen, 

Or known from others who have known 
such thiny;s, 

A Shade, a Form, which Earth and 
Heaven between 

Wields an invisible rod — that Priests 
and Kings, 

Custom, domestic sway, ay, all that 
brings 

Man's free-born soul beneath the op- 
pressor's heel. 

Are his strong ministers, and that the 
stings 

Of death will make the wise his ven- 
geance feel. 
Though truth and virtue arm their hearts 
with tenfold steel. 

VIII 

* " And it is said this Power will punish 

wrong ; 
Yes, add despair to crime, and pain to 

pain ! 
And deepest hell, and deathless snakes 

among, 
Will bind the wretch on whom is fixed a 

stain, 
Which, like a plague, a burden, and a 

bane, 
Clung to him while he lived; for love 

and hate. 
Virtue and vice, they say, are difference 

vain — 
The will of strength is right. This hu- 
man state 
Tyrants, that they may rule, with lies thus 

desolate. 

IX 

-** Alas, what strength ? Opinion is more 

frail 
Than yon dim cloud now fading on the 

moon 
Even while we gaze, though it awhile 

avail 
To hide the orb of truth — and every 

throne 
Of Earth or Heaven, though shadow, 

rests thereon. 
One shape of many names: — for this ye 

plough 
The barren waves of Ocean — hence 

each one 



Is slave or tyrant; all betray and bow. 
Command, or kill, or fear, or wreak or 
suffer woe. 

X 

* " Its names are each a sign which mak- 

eth holy 
All power — ay, the ghost, the dream, 

the shade 
Of power — lust, falsehood, hate, and 

pride, and folly; 
The pattern whence all fraud and wrong 

is made, 
A law to which mankind has been be- 
trayed ; 
And human love is as the name well 

known 
Of a dear mother whom the murderer 

laid 
In bloody grave, and, into darkness 

thrown. 
Gathered her wildered babes around him 

as his own. 

XI 

' " O Love, who to the hearts of wander- 
ing men 

Art as the calm to Ocean's weary waves ! 

Justice, or Truth, or Joy ! those only can 

From slavery and religion's labyrinth- 
caves 

Guide us, as one clear star the seaman 
saves. 

To give to all an equal share of good. 

To track the steps of Freedom, though 
through graves 

She pass, to suffer all in patient mood. 
To weep for crime though stained with 
thy friend's dearest blood, 

XII 

' " To feel the peace of self-contentment's 

lot. 
To own all sympathies, and outrage none. 
And in the inmost bowers of sense and 

thought, 
Until life's sunny day is quite gone down. 
To sit and smile with Joy, or, not alone, 
To kiss salt tears from the worn cheek 

of Woe; 
To live as if to love and live were one, -^ 
This is not faith or law, nor those who 

bow 
To thrones on Heaven or Earth such destiny 

may know. 



CANTO EIGHTH 



109 



XIII 

' " But children near their parents tremble 
now, 

Because they must obey; one rules 
another, 

And, as one Power rules both high and 
low, 

So man is made the captive of his brother, 

And Hate is throned on high with Fear 
his mother 

Above the Highest; and those fountain- 
cells. 

Whence love yet flowed when faith had 
choked all other. 

Are darkened — Woman as the bond- 
slave dwells 
Of man, a slave ; and life is poisoned in its 
wells. 

XIV 

* " Man seeks for gold in mines that he 
may weave 
A lasting chain for his own slavery; 
In fear and restless care that he may live 
He toils for others who must ever be 
The joyless thralls of like captivity; 
He murders, for his chiefs delight in ruin; 
He builds the altar that its idol's fee 
May be his very blood; he is pursuing — 
Oh, blind and willing wretch ! — his own 
obscure undoing. 

XV 

'"Woman! — she is his slave, she has 

become 
A thing I weep to speak — the child of 

scorn, 
The outcast of a desolated home; 
Falsehood, and fear, and toil, like waves 

have worn 
Channels upon her cheek, which smiles 

adorn 
As calm decks the false Ocean: — well 

ye know 
What Woman is, for none of Woman born 
Can choose but drain the bitter dregs of 

woe, 
Which ever from the oppressed to the op- 
pressors flow. 

XVI 

' " This need not be ; ye might arise, and 
will 
That gold should lose its power, and 
thrones their glory; 



That love, which none may bind, be free 

to fill 
The world, like light; and evil faith, 

grown hoary 
With crime, be quenched and die. — 

Yon promontory 
Even now eclipses the descending 

moon ! — 
Dungeons and palaces are transitory — 
High temples fade like vapor — Man 

alone 
Remains, whose will has power when all 

beside is gone. 

XVII 

*"Let all be free and equal! — from 
your hearts 
I feel an echo; through my inmost frame 
Like sweetest sound, seeking its mate, 

it darts. 
Whence come ye, friends ? Alas, I can- 
not name 
All that I read of sorrow, toil and shame 
On your worn faces; as in legends old 
Which make immortal the disastrous 

fame 
Of conquerors and impostors false and 
bold. 
The discord of your hearts I in your looks 
behold. 

XVIII 

' " Whence come ye, friends ? from pour- 
ing human blood 

Forth on the earth ? or bring ye steel 
and gold, 

That kings may dupe and slay the multi- 
tude ? 

Or from the famished poor, pale, weak 
and cold. 

Bear ye the earnings of their toil ? un- 
fold ! 

Speak ! are your hands in slaughter's 
sanguine hue 

Stained freshly ? have your hearts in 
guile grown old ? 

Know yourselves thus ! ye shall be pure 
as dew. 
And I will be a friend and sister unto you. 

XIX 

* " Disguise it not — we have one human 
heart — 
All mortal thoughts confess a common 
home; 



no 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Blush not for what may to thyself impart 
Stains of inevitable crime; the doom 
Is this, which has, or may, or must, be- 
come 
Thine, and all humankind's. Ye are 

the spoil 
Which Time thus marks for the devour- 
ing tomb — 
Thou and thy thoughts, and they, and all 
the toil 
Wherewith ye twine the rings of life's per- 
petual coil. 

XX 

* " Disguise it not — ye blush for what ye 

hate. 
And Enmity is sister unto Shame; 
Look on your mind — it is the book of 

fate — 
Ah! it is dark with many a blazoned 

name 
Of misery — all are mirrors of the same; 
But the dark fiend who with his iron pen. 
Dipped in scorn's fiery poison, makes 

his fame 
Enduring there, would o'er the heads of 

men 
Pass harmless, if they scorned to make 

their hearts his den. 

XXI 

* " Yes, it is Hate, that shapeless fiendly 

thing 
Of many names, all evil, some divine. 
Whom self-contempt arms with a mortal 

sting; 
Which, when the heart its snaky folds 

entwine. 
Is wasted quite, and when it doth repine 
To gorge such bitter prey, on all beside 
It turns with ninefold rage, as with its 

twine 
When Amphisbsena some fair bird has 

tied. 
Soon o'er the putrid mass he threats on 

every side. 

XXII 

* " Reproach not thine own soul, but know 

thyself, 
Nor hate another's crime, nor loathe thine 

own. 
It is the dark idolatry of self. 
Which, when our thoughts and actions 

once are ffone, 



Demands that man should weep, and 

bleed, and groan ; 
Oh, vacant expiation ! be at rest ! 
The past is Death's, the future is thine 

own; 
And love and joy can make the foulest 

breast 
A paradise of flowers, where peace might 

build her nest. 

XXIII 

* " Speak thou ! whence come ye ? " — 

A youth made reply, — 
" Wearily, wearily o'er the boundless 

deep 
We sail; thou readest well the misery 
Told in these faded eyes, but much doth 

sleep 
Within, which there the poor heart loves 

to keep. 
Or dare not write on the dishonored 

brow; 
Even from our childhood have we learned 

to steep 
The bread of slavery in the tears of woe, 
And never dreamed of hope or refuge un- 
til now. 

XXIV 

* "Yes — I must speak — my secret should 

have perished 
Even with the heart it wasted, as a 

brand 
Fades in the dying flame whose life it 

cherished. 
But that no human bosom can withstand 
Thee, wondrous Lady, and the mild 

command 
Of thy keen eyes: — yes, we are wretched 

slaves, 
Who from their wonted loves and native 

land 
Are reft, and bear o'er the dividing waves 
The unregarded prey of calm and happy 

graves. 

XXV 

* " We drag afar from pastoral vales the 

fairest 
Among the daughters of those mountains 

lone ; 
We drag them there where aU things 

best and rarest 
Are stained and trampled; years have 

come and ^one 



CANTO NINTH 



III 



Since, like the ship which bears me, I 

have known 
No thought; but now the eyes of one 

dear maid 
On mine with light of mutual love have 

shone — 
She is my life — I am but as the shade 
Of her — a smoke sent up from ashes, soon 

to fade ! — 

XXVI 

* " For she must perish in the Tyrant's 

hall — 
Alas, alas ! " — He ceased, and by the 

sail 
Sat cowering — but his sobs were heard 

by all, 
And still before the Ocean and the gale 
The ship fled fast till the stars 'gan to 

fail; 
And, round me gathered with mute 

countenance, 
The Seamen gazed, the Pilot, worn and 

pale 
With toil, the Captain with gray locks 

whose glance 
Met mine in restless awe — they stood as 

in a trance. 

XXVII 

' " Recede not ! pause not now ! thou art 

grown old, 
But Hope will make thee young, for 

Hope and Youth 
Are children of one mother, even Love 

— behold! 
The eternal stars gaze on us ! — is the 

truth 
Within your soul ? care for your own, 

or ruth 
For others' sufferings ? do ye thirst to 

bear 
A heart which not the serpent Custom's 

tooth 
May violate ? — be free ! and even here, 
Swear to be firm till death ! " — they cried, 

" We swear ! we swear ! " 

XXVIII 

* The very darkness shook, as with a blast 
Of subterranean thunder, at the cry; 
The hollow shore its thousand echoes 

cast 
Into the night, as if the sea and sky 
And earth rejoiced with new-born liberty, 



For in that name they swore ! Bolts 

were undrawn. 
And on the deck with unaccustomed eye 
The captives gazing stood, and every 

one 
Shrank as the mconstant torch upon her 

countenance shone. 

XXIX 

'They were earth's purest children, 
young and fair. 

With eyes the shrines of unawakened 
thought, 

And brows as bright as spring or morn- 
ing, ere 

Dark time had there its evil legend 
wrought 

In characters of cloud which wither not. 

The change was like a dream to them; 
but soon 

They knew the glory of their altered 
lot — 

In the bright wisdom of youth's breath- 
less noon. 
Sweet talk and smiles and sighs all bosoms 
did attune. 

XXX 

'But one was mute; her cheeks and lips 

most fair. 
Changing their hue like lilies newly 

blown 
Beneath a bright acacia's shadowy hair 
Waved by the wind amid the sunny noon, 
Showed that her soul was quivering; and 

full soon 
That youth arose, and breathlessly did 

look 
On her and me, as for some speechless 

boon; 
I smiled, and both their hands in mine I 

took. 
And felt a soft delight from what their 

spirits shook. 

CANTO NINTH 



* That night we anchored in a woody bay, 
And sleep no more around us dared to 

hover 
Than, when all doubt and fear has passed 

away. 
It shades the couch of some unresting 

lover 



112 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Whose heart is now at rest; thus night 

passed over 
In mutual joy; around, a forest grew 
Of poplars and dark oaks, whose shade 

did cover 
The waning stars pranked in the waters 

blue. 
And trembled in the wind which from the 

morning flew. 

II 

* The joyous mariners and each free maiden 
Now brought from the deep forest many 

a bough, 
With woodland spoil most innocently 

laden; 
Soon wreaths of budding foliage seemed 

to flow 
Over the mast and sails; the stern and 

prow 
Were canopied with blooming boughs; 

the while 
On the slant sun's path o'er the waves 

we go 
Rejoicing, like the dwellers of an isle 
Doomed to pursue those waves that cannot 

cease to smile. 

Ill 

* The many ships spotting the dark blue 

deep 

With snowy sails, fled fast as ours came 
nigh, 

In fear and wonder; and on every steep 

Thousands did gaze. They heard the 
startling cry, 

Like earth's own voice lifted unconquer- 
ably 

To all her children, the unbounded mirth, 

The glorious joy of thy name — Liberty ! 

They heard ! — As o'er the mountains 
of the earth 
From peak to peak leap on the beams of 
morning's birth, 

IV 

* So from that cry over the boundless 

hills 
Sudden was caught one universal sound. 
Like a volcano's voice whose thunder 

fills 
Remotest skies, — such glorious madness 

found 
A path through human hearts with 

stream which drowned 



Its struggling fears and cares, dark Cus- 
tom's brood; 

They knew not whence it came, but felt 
around 

A wide contagion poured — they called 
aloud 
On Liberty — that name lived on the sunny 
flood. 



* We reached the port. Alas ! from many 

spirits 
The wisdom which had waked that cry 

was fled, 
Like the brief glory which dark Heaven 

inherits 
From the false dawn, which fades ere it 

is spread. 
Upon the night's devouring darkness 

shed ; 
Yet soon bright day will burst — even 

like a chasm 
Of fire, to burn the shrouds outworn and 

dead 
Which wrap the world; a wide enthusi- 
asm, 
To cleanse the fevered world as with an 

earthquake's spasm ! 

VI 

*I walked through the great City then, 

but free 
From shame or fear; those toil-worn 

mariners 
And happy maidens did encompass me; 
And like a subterranean wind that 

stirs 
Some forest among caves, the hopes and 

fears 
From every human soul a murmur 

strange 
Made as I passed; and many wept with 

tears 
Of joy and awe, and winged thoughts did 

range. 
And half-extinguished words which prophe- 
sied of change, 

VII 

' For with strong speech I tore the veil 
that hid 

Nature, and Truth, and Liberty, and 
Love, — 

As one who from some mountain's pyra- 
mid 



CANTO NINTH 



Jti3 



Poiuts to the unriseu sun ! the shades 
approve 

His truth, and flee from every stream 
and grove. 

Thus, gentle thoughts did many a bosom 
fill, 

Wisdom the mail of tried affections wove 

For many a heart, and tameless scorn of 
ill 
Thrice steeped in molten steel the uncon- 
querable will. 

VIII 

* Some said I was a maniac wild and 

lost; 
Some, that I scarce had risen from the 

grave 
The Prophet's virgin bride, a heavenly 

ghost; 
Some said I was a fiend from my weird 

cave, 
Who had stolen human shape, and o'er 

the wave, 
The forest, and the mountain, came; 

some said 
I was the child of God, sent down to save 
Woman from bonds and death, and on 

my head 
The burden of their sins would frightfully 

be laid. 

IX 

' But soon my human words found sympa- 

thy 
In human hearts; the purest and the best, 
As friend with friend, made common 

cause with me. 
And they were few, but resolute; the 

rest. 
Ere yet success the enterprise had 

blessed. 
Leagued with me in their hearts; their 

meals, their slumber. 
Their hourly occupations, were possessed 
By hopes which I had armed to over- 
number 
Those hosts of meaner cares which life's 

strong wings encumber. 

X 

* But chiefly women, whom my voice did 

waken 
From their cold, careless, willing slavery, 
Sought me ; one truth their dreary prison 

has shaken, 



They looked around, and lo! they be- 
came free ! 

Their many tyrants, sitting desolately 

In slave-deserted halls, could none re- 
strain ; 

For wrath's red fire had withered in the 
eye 

Whose lightning once was death, — nor 
fear nor gain 
Could tempt one captive now to lock an- 
other's chain. 

XI 

* Those who were sent to bind me wept, 

and felt 
Their minds outsoar the bonds which 

clasped them round, 
Even as a waxen shape may waste and 

melt 
In the white furnace; and a visioned 

s wound, 
A pause of hope and awe, the City bound, 
Which, like the silence of a tempest's 

birth, 
When in its awful shadow it has wound 
The sun, the wind, the ocean, and the 

earth. 
Hung terrible, ere yet the lightnings have 

leaped forth. 

XII 

* Like clouds inwoven in the silent sky 
By winds from distant regions meeting 

there. 
In the high name of Truth and Liberty 
Around the City millions gathered were 
By hopes which sprang from many a 

hidden lair, — 
Words which the lore of truth in hues of 

grace 
Arrayed, thine own wild songs which in 

the air 
Like homeless odors floated, and the 

name 
Of thee, and many a tongue which thou 

hadst dipped in flame. 

XIII 

' The Tyrant knew his power was gone, 

but Fear, 
The nurse of Vengeance, bade him wait 

the event — 
That perfidy and custom, gold and 

prayer, 
And whatsoe'er, when Force is impotent, 



114 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



To Fraud the sceptre of the world has 

lent, 
Might, as he judged, confirm his failing 

sway. 
Therefore throughout the streets, the 

Priests he sent 
To curse the rebels. To their gods did 

they 
For Earthquake, Plague and Want, kneel 

in the public way. 

XIV 

* And grave and hoary men were bribed to 

tell, 
From seats where law is made the slave 

of wrong, 
How glorious Athens in her splendor fell. 
Because her sons were free, — and that 

among 
Mankind, the many to the few belong 
By Heaven, and Nature, and Necessity. 
They said, that age was truth, and that 

the young 
Marred with wild hopes the peace of 

slavery, 
With which old times and men had quelled 

the vain and free. 

XV 

* And with the falsehood of their poisonous 

lips 
They breathed on the enduring memory 
Of sages and of bards a brief eclipse. 
There was one teacher, who necessity 
Had armed with strength and wrong 

against mankind, 
His slave and his avenger aye to be; 
That we were weak and sinful, frail and 

blind, 
And that the will of one was peace, and 

we 
Should seek for nought on earth but toil 

and misery — 

XVI 

* " For thus we might avoid the hell here- 

after." 
So spake the hypocrites, who cursed and 

lied. 
Alas, their sway was passed, and tears 

and laughter 
Clung to their hoary hair, withering the 

pride 
Which in their hollow hearts dared still 

abide ; 



And yet obscener slaves with smoother 

brow. 
And sneers on their strait lips, thin, blue 

and wide, 
Said that the rule of men was over now, 
And hence the subject world to woman's 

will must bow. 

XVII 

* And gold was scattered through the 

streets, and wine 
Flowed at a hundred feasts within the 

wall. 
In vain ! the steady towers in Heaven 

did shine 
As they were wont, nor at the priestly call 
Left Plague her banquet in the ^thiop's 

hall, 
Nor Famine from the rich man's portal 

came, 
W^here at her ease she ever preys on all 
Who throng to kneel for food; nor fear, 

nor shame, 
Nor faith, nor discord, dimmed hope's newly 

kindled flame. 

XVIII 

* For gold was as a god whose faith be- 

gan 
To fade, so that its worshippers were 

few; 
And Faith itself, which in the heart of 

man 
Gives shape, voice, name, to spectral 

Terror, knew 
Its downfall, as the altars lonelier grew, 
Till the Priests stood alone within the 

fane; 
The shafts of falsehood unpollutingflew, 
And the cold sneers of calumny were vain 
The union of the free with discord's brand 

to stain. 

XIX 

* The rest thou knowest. — Lo ! we two 

are here — 
We have survived a ruin wide and deep — 
Strange thoughts are mine. I cannot 

grieve or fear. 
Sitting with thee upon this lonely steep 
I smile, though human love should make 

me weep. 
We have survived a joy that knows no 

sorrow, 
And I do feel a mighty calmness creep 



CANTO NINTH 



115 



Over my heart, which can no longer 
borrow 
Its hues from chance or change, dark chil- 
dren of to-morrow. 

XX 

' We know not what will come. Yet, Laon, 

dearest, 
Cythna shall be the prophetess of Love; 
Her lips shall rob thee of the grace thou 

wearest, 
To hide thy heart, and clothe the shapes 

which rove 
Within the homeless Future's wintry 

grove ; 
For I now, sitting thus beside thee, 

seem 
Even with thy breath and blood to live 

and move, 
And violence and wrong are as a dream 
Which rolls from steadfast truth, — an un- 

returning stream. 

XXI 

*The blasts of Autumn drive the winged 

seeds 
Over the earth; next come the snows, 

and rain. 
And frosts, and storms, which dreary 

Winter leads 
Out of his Scythian cave, a savage train. 
Behold ! Spring sweeps over the world 

again, 
Shedding soft dews from her ethereal 

wings ; 
Flowers on the mountains, fruits over 

the plain. 
And music on the waves and woods she 

flings. 
And love on all that lives, and calm on life- 
less things. 

XXII 

* O Spring, of hope and love and youth and 

gladness 
Wind- winged emblem ! brightest, best 

and fairest ! 
Whence com est thou, when, with dark 

Winter's sadness 
The tears that fade in sunny smiles thou 

sharest ? 
Sister of joy ! thou art the child who 

wearest 
Thy mother's dying smile, tender and 

sweet; 



Thy mother Autumn, for whose grave 

thoii bearest 
Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, 
with gentle feet. 
Disturbing not the leaves which are her 
winding sheet. 

XXIII 

' Virtue and Hope and Love, like light 

and Heaven, 
Surround the world. We are their chosen 

slaves. 
Has not the whirlwind of our spirit driven 
Truth's deathless germs to thought's re- 
motest caves ? 
Lo, Winter comes ! — the grief of many 

graves. 
The frost of death, the tempest of the 

sword. 
The flood of tyranny, whose sanguine 

waves 
Stagnate like ice at Faith the enchanter's 

word, 
And bind all human hearts in its repose 

abhorred. 

XXIV 

* The seeds are sleeping in the soil. Mean- 

while 
The Tyrant peoples dungeons with his 

prey; 
Pale victims on the guarded scaffold 

smile 
Because they cannot speak; and, day by 

day. 
The moon of wasting Science wanes 

away 
Among her stars, and in that darkness 

vast 
The sons of earth to their foul idols pray. 
And gray Priests triumph, and like 

blight or blast 
A shade of selfish care o'er human looks is 

cast. 

XXV 

* This is the Winter of the world ; and 

here 
We die, even as the winds of Autumn 

fade. 
Expiring in the frore and foggy air. 
Behold ! Spring comes, though we must 

pass who made 
The promise of its birth, — even as the 

shade 



ii6 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Which from our death, as from a moun- 
tain, flings 

The future, a broad sunrise; thus ar- 
rayed 

As with the plumes of overshadowing 
wings, 
From its dark gulf of chains Earth like an 
eagle springs. 

XXVI 

* O dearest love ! we shall be dead and 

cold 
Before this morn may on the world arise. 
Wouldst thou the glory of its dawn be- 
hold ? 
Alas ! gaze not on me, but turn thine 

eyes 
On thine own heart — it is a Paradise 
Which everlasting spring has made its 

own, 
And while drear winter fills the naked 

skies, 
Sweet streams of sunny thought, and 

flowers fresh blown, 
Are there, and weave their sounds and odors 

into one. 

XXVII 

*In their own hearts the earnest of the 

hope 
Which made them great the good will 

ever find; 
And though some envious shade may 

interlope 
Between the effect and it. One comes 

behind, 
Who aye the future to the past will 

bind — 
Necessity, whose sightless strength for- 
ever 
Evil with evil, good with good, must 

wind 
In bands of union, which no power may 

sever; 
They must bring forth their kind, and be 

divided never ! 

XXVIII 

* The good and mighty of departed ages 
Are in their graves, the innocent and 

free. 
Heroes, and Poets, and prevailing Sages, 
Who leave the vesture of their majesty 
To adorn and clothe this naked world; 

— and we 



Are like to them — such perish, but they 

leave 
All hope, or love, or truth, or liberty, 
Whose forms their mighty spirits could 

conceive, 
To be a rule and law to ages that survive. 

XXIX 

' So be the turf heaped over our remains 
Even in our happy youth, and that 

strange lot, 
Whate'er it be, when in these mingling 

veins 
The blood is still, be ours; let sense aud 

thought 
Pass from our being, or be numbered 

not 
Among the things that are; let those 

who come 
Behind, for whom our steadfast will has 

bought 
A calm inheritance, a glorious doom, 
Insult with careless tread our undivided 

tomb. 

XXX 

' Our many thoughts and deeds, our life 

and love. 
Our happiness, and all that we have been. 
Immortally must live aud burn and 

move 
When we shall be no more; — the world 

has seen 
A type of peace; and as some most 

serene 
And lovely spot to a poor maniac's eye — 
After long years some sweet and moving 

scene 
Of youthful hope returning suddenly — 
Quells his long madness, thus Man shall 

remember thee. 

XXXI 

' And Calumny meanwhile shall feed on 

us 
As worms devour the dead, and near the 

throne 
And at the altar most accepted thus 
Shall sneers and curses be; — what we 

have done 
None shall dare vouch, though it be 

truly known; 
That record shall remain when they 

must pass 
Who built their pride on its oblivion, 



CANTO TENTH 



ii^ 



And fame, in human hope which sculp- 
tured was, 
Survive the perished scrolls of unenduring 
brass. 

XXXII 

* The while we two, beloved, must depart, 
And Sense and Reason, those enchanters 

fair. 
Whose wand of power is hope, would 

bid the heart 
That gazed beyond the wormy grave 

despair ; 
These eyes, these lips, this blood, seems 

darkly there 
To fade in hideous ruin ; no calm sleep, 
Peopling with golden dreams the stagnant 

air, 
Seems our obscure and rotting eyes to 

steep 
In joy ; — but senseless death — a ruin 

dark and deep ! 

XXXIII 

* These are blind fancies. Reason cannot 

know 
What sense can neither feel nor thought 

conceive; 
There is delusion in the world — and 

woe. 
And fear, and pain — we know not 

whence we live. 
Or why, or how, or what mute Power 

may give 
Their being to each plant, and star, and 

beast, 
Or even these thoughts. — Come near 

me ! I do weave 
A chain I cannot break — I am possessed 
With thoughts too swift and strong for one 

lone human breast. 

XXXIV 

'Yes, yes — thy kiss is sweet, thy lips 

are warm — 
Oh, willingly, beloved, would these eyes 
Might they no more drink being from 

thy form, 
Even as to sleep whence we again arise, 
Close their faint orbs in death. I fear 

nor prize 
Aught that can now betide, unshared by 

thee. 
Yes, Love when Wisdom fails makes 

Cythna wise; 



Darkness and death, if death be true, 
must be 
Dearer than life and hope if unenjoyed 
with thee. 

XXXV 

* Alas! our thoughts flow on with stream 

whose waters 
Return not to their fountain; Earth and 

Heaven, 
The Ocean and the Sun, the clouds their 

daughters. 
Winter, and Spring, and Morn, and 

Noon, and Even — 
All that we are or know, is darkly driven 
Towards one gulf. — Lo ! what a change 

is come 
Since I first spake — but time shall be for- 
given. 
Though it change all but thee ! ' She 

ceased — night's gloom 
Meanwhile had fallen on earth from the 

sky's sunless dome. 

XXXVI 

Though she had ceased, her countenance 

uplifted 
To Heaven still spake with solemn glory 

bright; 
Her dark deep eyes, her lips, whose mo- 
tions gifted 
The air they breathed with love, her 

locks undight; 
* Fair star of life and love,' I cried, * my 

soul's delight, 
Why lookest thou on the crystalline 

skies ? 
Oh, that my spirit were yon Heaven of 

night, 
Which gazes on thee with its thousand 

eyes ! ' 
She turned to me and smiled — that smile 

was Paradise ! 

CANTO TENTH 



Was there a human spirit in the steed 
That thus with his proud voice, ere night 

was gone. 
He broke our linked rest ? or do indeed 
All living things a common nature own, 
And thought erect an universal throne. 
Where many shapes one tribute evei 

"bear? 



Ii8 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



And Eartb, their mutual mother, does 

she groan 
To see her sous contend ? and makes she 

bare 
Her breast that all in peace its drainless 

stores may share ? 

II 

I have heard friendly sounds from many 

a tongue 
Which was not human ; the lone nightin- 
gale 
Has answered me with her most soothing 

song, 
Out of her ivy bower, when I sate pale 
With grief, and sighed beneath; from 

many a dale 
The antelopes who flocked for food have 

spoken 
With happy sounds and motions that 

avail 
Like man's own speech; and such was 

now the token 
Of waning night, whose calm by that proud 

neigh was broken. 

Ill 

Each night that mighty steed bore me 

abroad, 
And I returned with food to our retreat, 
And dark intelligence; the blood which 

flowed 
Over the fields had stained the courser's 

feet; 
Soon the dust drinks that bitter dew, — 

then meet 
The vulture, and the wild-dog, and the 

snake. 
The wolf, and the hyena gray, and eat 
The dead in horrid truce; their throngs 

did make 
Behind the steed a chasm like waves in a 

ship's wake. 

IV 

For from the utmost realms of earth 
came pouring 

The banded slaves whom every despot 
sent 

At that throned traitor's summons; like 
the roaring 

Of fire, whose floods the wild deer cir- 
cumvent 

In the scorched pastures of the south, so 
bent 



The armies of the leagued kings around 
Their files of steel and flame; the conti- 
nent 
Trembled, as with a zone of ruin bound, 
Beneath their feet — the sea shook with 
their Navies' sound. 



From every nation of the earth they 
came, 

The multitude of moving heartless things, 

Whom slaves call men; obediently they 
came. 

Like sheep whom from the fold the shep- 
herd brings 

To the stall, red with blood; their many 
kings 

Led them, thus erring, from their native 
land — 

Tartar and Frank, and millions whom 
the wings 

Of Indian breezes lull; and many a band 
The Arctic Anarch sent, and Idumea's sand 

VI 

Fertile in prodigies and lies. So there 

Strange natures made a brotherhood of 
ill. 

The desert savage ceased to grasp in fear 

His Asian shield and bow when, at the 
will 

Of Europe's subtler son, the bolt would 
kill 

Some shepherd sitting on a rock secure; 

But smiles of wondering joy his face 
would fill. 

And savage sympathy; those slaves im- 
pure 
Each one the other thus from ill to ill did 
lure. 

VII 

For traitorously did that foul Tyrant 
robe 

His countenance in lies; even at the hour 

When he was snatched from death, then 
o'er the globe, 

With secret signs from many a moun- 
tain tower, 

With smoke by day, and fire by night, 
the power 

Of Kings and Priests, those dark con- 
spirators. 

He called; they knew his cause theii 
own, and swore 



CANTO TENTH 



119 



Like wolves and serpents to their mu- 
tual wars 
Strange truce, with many a rite which 
Earth and Heaven abhors. 

VIII 

Myriads had come — millions were on 

their way; 
The Tyrant passed, surrounded by the 

steel 
Of hired assassins, through the public 

way, 
Choked with his country's dead; his foot- 
steps reel 
On the fresh blood — he smileSo ' Ay, 

now I feel 
I am a King in truth ! ' he said, and took 
His royal seat, and bade the torturing 

wheel 
Be brought, and fire, and pincers, and 

the hook, 
And scorpions, that his soul on its revenge 

might look. 

IX 

* But first, go slay the rebels — why return 
The victor bands ? ' he said, ' millions 

yet live, 

Of whom the weakest with one word 
might turn 

The scales of victory yet; let none sur- 
vive 

But those within the walls — each fifth 
shall give 

The expiation for his brethren here. 

Go forth, and waste and kill ! ' — * O 
king, forgive 

My speech,' a soldier answered, * but we 
fear 
The spirits of the night, and morn is draw- 
ing near; 

X 

* For we were slaying still without remorse, 
And now that dreadful chief beneath my 

hand 
Defenceless lay, when on a hell-black 

horse 
An Angel bright as day, waving a brand 
Which flashed among the stars, passed.' 

— ' Dost thou stand 
Parleying with me, thou wretch ? ' the 

king replied; 

* Slaves, bind him to the wheel; and of 

this band 



Whoso will drag that woman to his side 
That scared him thus may burn his dearest 
foe beside J 

XI 

*And gold and glory shall be his. Go 

forth ! ' 
They rushed into the plain. Loud was 

the roar 
Of their career; the horsemen shook the 

earth ; 
The wheeled artillery's speed the pave- 
ment tore; 
The infantry, file after file, did pour 
Their clouds on the utmost hills. Five 

days they slew 
Among the wasted fields; the sixth saw 

gore 
Stream through the City; on the seventh 

the dew 
Of slaughter became stiff, and there was 

peace anew: 

XII 

Peace in the desert fields and villages, 
Between the glutted beasts and mangled 

dead ! 
Peace in the silent streets ! save when 

the cries 
Of victims, to their fiery judgment led, 
Made pale their voiceless lips who seemed 

to dread. 
Even in their dearest kindred, lest some 

tongue 
Be faithless to the fear yet unbetrayed; 
Peace in the Tyrant's palace, where the 

throng 
Waste the triumphal hours in festival and 



song 



XIII 



Day after day the burning Sun rolled on 

Over the death-polluted land. It came 

Out of the east like fire, and fiercely 
shone 

A lamp of autumn, ripening with ite» 
flame 

The few lone ears of corn; the sky be- 
came 

Stagnate with heat, so that each cloud 
and blast 

Languished and died; the thirsting air 
did claim 

All moisture, and a rotting vapor passed 
From the unburied dead, invisible and fast. 



I20 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



XIV 

First Want, then Plague, came on the 

beasts; their food 
Failed, and they drew the breath of its 

decay. 
Millions on millions, whom the scent of 

blood 
Had lured, or who from regions far 

away 
Had tracked the hosts in festival array, 
From their dark deserts, gaunt and 

wasting now 
Stalked like fell shades among their 

perished prey; 
In their green eyes a strange disease did 

glow — 
They sank in hideous spasm, or pains severe 

and slow. 

XV 

The fish were poisoned in the streams; 

the birds 
In the green woods perished; the insect 

race 
Was withered up; the scattered flocks 

and herds 
Who had survived the wild beasts' hun- 

gr}^ chase 
Died moaning, each upon the other's face 
In helpless agony gazing; round the 

City 
All night, the lean hyenas their sad 

case 
Like starving infants wailed — a woful 

ditty; 
And many a mother wept, pierced with 

unnatural pity. 

XVI 

Amid the aerial minarets on high 
The Ethiopian vultures fluttering fell 
From their long line of brethren in the 

sky, 
Startling the concourse of mankind. 

Too well 
These signs the coming mischief did 

foretell. 
Strange panic first, a deep and sickening 

dread. 
Within each heart, like ice, did sink and 

dwell, 
A voiceless thought of evil, which did 

spread 
With the quick glance of eyes, like wither- 
ing lightnings shed. 



XVII 

Day after day, when the year wanes, the 

frosts 
Strip its green crown of leaves till all is 

bare; 
So on those strange and congregated 

hosts 
Came Famine, a swift shadow, and the 

air 
Groaned with the burden of a new de- 
spair; 
Famine, than whom Misrule no deadlier 

daughter 
Feeds from her thousand breasts, though 

sleeping there 
With lidless eyes lie Faith and Plague 

and Slaughter — 
A ghastly brood conceived of Lethe's sullen 

water. 

XVIII 

There was no food ; the corn was tram- 
pled down. 
The flocks and herds had perished; on 

the shore 
The dead and putrid fish were ever 

thrown ; 
The deeps were foodless, and the winds 

no more 
Creaked with the weight of birds, but as 

before 
Those winged things sprang forth, were 

void of shade; 
The vines and orchards, autumn's golden 

store, 
Were burned ; so that the meanest food 

was weighed 
With gold, and avarice died before the god 

it made. 

XIX 

There was no corn — in the wide market- 
place 
All loathliest things, even human flesh, 

was sold; 
They weighed it in small scales — and 

many a face 
Was fixed in eager horror then. His 

gold 
The miser brought; the tender maid. 

grown bold 
Through hunger, bared her scorned 

charms in vain; 
The mother brought her eldest born, 

controlled 



CANTO TENTH 



121 



By instinct blind as love, but turned again 
And bade her infant suck, and died in 
silent pain. 

XX 

Then fell blue Plague upon the race of 
man. 
* Oh, for the sheathed steel, so late which 
gave 

Oblivion to the dead when the streets ran 

With brothers' blood ! Oh, that the 
earthquake's grave 

Would gape, or Ocean lift its stifling 
wave ! ' 

Vain cries — throughout the streets thou- 
sands pursued 

Each by his fiery torture howl and rave 

Or sit in frenzy's unimagined mood 
Upon fresh heaps of dead — a ghastly 
multitude. 

XXI 

It was not hunger now, but thirst. 

Each well 
Was choked with rotting corpses, and 

became 
A caldron of green mist made visible 
At sunrise. Thither still the myriads 

came, 
Seeking to quench the agony of the flame 
Which raged like poison through their 

bursting veins; 
Naked they were from torture, without 

shame, 
Spotted with nameless scars and lurid 

blains — 
Childhood, and youth, and age, writhing in 

savage pains. 

XXII 

It was not thirst, but madness ! Many 

saw 
Their own lean image everywhere — it 

went 
A ghastlier self beside them, till the awe 
Of that dread sight to self-destruction 

sent 
Those shrieking victims; some, ere life 

was spent, 
Sought, with a horrid sympathy, to shed 
Contagion on the sound; and others rent 
Their matted hair, and cried aloud, * We 

tread 
On fire ! the avenging Power his hell on 

earth has spread.' 



XXIII 

Sometimes the living by the dead were 

hid. 
Near the great fountain in the public 

square. 
Where corpses made a crumbling pyra-^ 

mid 
Under the sun, was heard one stifled 

prayer 
For life, in the hot silence of the air; 
And strange 't was 'mid that hideous 

heap to see 
Some shrouded in their long and golden 

hair, 
As if not dead, but slumbering quietly, 
Like forms which sculptors carve, then 

love to agony. 

XXIV 

Famine had spared the palace of the 

King; 
He rioted in festival the while. 
He and his guards and Priests; but 

Plague did fling 
One shadow upon all. Famine can smile 
On him who brings it food, and pass, 

with guile 
Of thankful falsehood, like a courtier 

gray, 
The house-dog of the throne; but many 

a mile 
Comes Plague, a winged wolf, who 

loathes alway 
The garbage and the scum that strangers 

make her prey. 

XXV 

So, near the throne, amid the gorgeous 
feast, 

Sheathed in resplendent arms, or loosely 
dight 

To luxury, ere the mockery yet had 
ceased 

That lingered on his lips, the warrior's 
might 

Was loosened, and a new and ghastlier 
night 

In dreams of frenzy lapped his eyes; he 
fell 

Headlong, or with stiff eyeballs sate up- 
right 

Among the guests, or raving mad did 
tell 
Strange truths — a dying seer of dark op- 
pression's hell. 



122 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



XXVI 

The Princes and the Priests were pale 

with terror; 
That monstrous faith wherewith they 

ruled mankind 
Fell, like a shaft loosed by the bowman's 

error, 
On their own hearts; they sought and 

they could find 
No refuge — 't was the blind who led the 

blind ! 
So, through the desolate streets to the 

high fane, 
The many-tongued and endless armies 

wind 
In sad procession; each among the train 
To his own idol lifts his supplications 

vain. 

XXVII 

* God ! ' they cried, * we know our secret 

pride 
Has scorned thee, and thy worship, and 

thy name; 
Secure in human power, we have defied 
Thy fearful might; we bend in fear and 

shame 
Before thy presence; with the dust we 

claim 
Kindred; be merciful, O King of Heaven! 
Most justly have we suffered for thy 

fame 
Made dim, but be at length our sins for- 
given. 
Ere to despair and death thy worshippers 

be driven ! 

XXVIII 

* King of Glory ! Thou alone hast 

power ! 
Who can resist thy will? who can re- 
strain 
Thy wrath when on the guilty thou dost 

shower 
The shafts of thy revenge, a blistering 

rain ? 
Greatest and best, be merciful again ! 
Have we not stabbed thine enemies, and 

made 
The Earth an altar, and the Heavens a 

fane. 
Where thou wert worshipped with their 

blood, and laid 
Those hearts in dust which would thy 

searchless works have weighed ? 



XXIX 

' Well didst thou loosen on this impious 

City 
Thine angels of revenge ! recall them 

now; 
Thy worshippers abased here kneel for 

pity, 
And bind their souls by an immortal 

vow. 
We swear by thee — and to our oath do 

thou 
Give sanction from thine hell of fiends 

and flame — 
That we will kill with fire and torments 

slow 
The last of those who mocked thy holy 

name 
And scorned the sacred laws thy prophets 

did proclaim.' 

XXX 

Thus they with trembling limbs and 

pallid lips 
Worshipped their own hearts' image, 

dim and vast. 
Scared by the shade wherewith they 

would eclipse 
The light of other minds; troubled they 

passed 
From the great Temple; fiercely still 

and fast 
The arrows of the plague among them 

fell. 
And they on one another gazed aghast, 
And through the hosts contention wild 

befell. 
As each of his own god the wondrous works 

did tell. 

XXXI 

And Oromaze, Joshua, and Mahomet, 
Moses, and Buddh, Zerdusht, and Brahm, 

and Foil, 
A tumult of strange names, which never 

met 
Before, as watchwords of a single woe, 
Arose ; each raging votary 'gan to throw 
Aloft his armed hands, and each did 
howl 
* Our God alone is God ! ' and slaughter 
now 
Would have gone forth, when from be- 
neath a cowl 
A voice came forth which pierced like ice 
through every soul. 



CANTO TENTH 



123 



XXXII 

*T was an Iberian Priest from whom it 

came, 
A zealous man, who led the legioned 

West, 
With words which faith and pride had 

steeped in flame, 
To quell the unbelievers; a dire guest 
Even to his friends was he, for in his 

breast 
Did hate and guile lie watchful, inter- 
twined, 
Twin serpents in one deep and winding 

nest; 
He loathed all faith beside his own, and 

pined 
To wreak his fear of Heaven in vengeance 

on mankind. 

XXXIII 

But more he loathed and hated the clear 

light 
Of wisdom and free thought, and more 

did fear, 
Lest, kindled once, its beams might 

pierce the night, 
Even where his Idol stood; for far and 

near 
Did many a heart in Europe leap to hear 
That faith and tyranny were trampled 

down, — 
Many a pale victim, doomed for truth to 

share 
The murderer's cell, or see with helpless 

groan 
The Priests his children drag for slaves to 

serve their own. 

XXXIV 

He dared not kill the infidels with fire 
Or steel, in Europe; the slow agonies 
Of legal torture mocked his keen desire; 
So he made truce with those who did de- 
spise 
The expiation and the sacrifice, 
That, though detested, Islam's kindred 

creed 
Might crush for him those deadlier ene- 
mies; 
For fear of God did in his bosom breed 
A jealous hate of man, an unreposing need. 

XXXV 

* Peace ! Peace ! ' he cried, ' when we are 
dead, the Day 



Of Judgment comes, and all shall surely 

know 
Whose God is God; each fearfully shall 

pay 

The errors of his faith in endless woe ! 
But there is sent a mortal vengeance 

now 
On earth, because an impious race had 

spurned 
Him whom we all adore, — a subtle foe, 
By whom for ye this dread reward was 

earned, 
And kingly thrones, which rest on faith, 

nigh overturned. 

XXXVI 

* Think ye, because ye weep and kneel 

and pray. 

That God will lull the pestilence ? It 
rose 

Even from beneath his throne, where, 
many a day. 

His mercy soothed it to a dark repose; 

It walks upon the earth to judge his foes, 

And what art thou and I, that he should 
deign 

To curb his ghastly minister, or close 

The gates of death, ere they receive the 
twain 
Who shook with mortal spells his unde- 
fended reign ? 

XXXVII 

* Ay, there is famine in the gulf of hell, 
Its giant worms of fire forever yawn, — 
Their lurid eyes are on us ! those who fell 
By the swift shafts of pestilence ere 

dawn 

Are in their jaws ! they hunger for the 
spawn 

Of Satan, their own brethren, who were 
sent 

To make our souls their spoil. See, see ! 
they fawn 

Like dogs, and they will sleep, with lux- 
ury spent. 
When those detested hearts their iron fangs 
have rent ! 

XXXVIII 

' Our God may then lull Pestilence to 
sleep. 
Pile high the pyre of expiation now ! 
A forest's spoil of boughs; and on the 
heap 



124 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Pour venomous gums, which sullenly and 

slow, 
When touched by flame, shall burn, and 

melt, and flow, 
A stream of clinging fire, — and fix on 

high 
A net of iron, and spread forth below 
A couch of snakes, and scorpions, and 

the fry 
Of centipedes and worms, earth's hellish 



progeny 



XXXIX 

* Let Laon and Laone on that pyre, 
Linked tight with burning brass, perish! 

— then pray 
That with this sacrifice the withering ire 
Of Heaven may be appeased.' He ceased, 

and they 
A space stood silent, as far, far away 
The echoes of his voice among them 

died; 
And he knelt down upon the dust, alway 
Muttering the curses of his speechless 

pride. 
Whilst shame, and fear, and awe, the armies 

did divide. 

XL 

His voice was like a blast that burst the 

portal 
Of fabled hell; and as he spake, each 

one 
Saw gape beneath the chasms of fire im- 
mortal. 
And Heaven above seemed cloven, where, 

on a throne 
Girt round with storms and shadows, sate 

alone 
Their King and Judge. Fear killed in 

every breast 
All natural pity then, a fear unknown 
Before, and with an inward fire possessed 
They raged like homeless beasts whom 

burning woods invest. 

XLI 

'T was morn, — At noon the public crier 
went forth. 

Proclaiming through the living and the 
dead, — 
' The Monarch saith that his great em- 
pire's worth 

Is set on Laon and Laone's head; 

He wbo but one yet living here can lead, 



Or who the life from both their hearts 

can wring. 
Shall be the kingdom's heir — a glorious 

meed ! 
But he who both alive can hither bring 
The Princess shall espouse, and reign an 

equal King.' 

XLII 

Ere night the pyre was piled, the net of 
iron 

Was spread above, the fearful couch be- 
low; 

It overtopped the towers that did environ 

That spacious square ; for Fear is never 
slow 

To build the thrones of Hate, her mate 
and foe; 

So she scourged forth the maniac mul- 
titude 

To rear this pyramid — tottering and 
slow. 

Plague-stricken, foodless, like lean herds 
pursued 
By gadflies, they have piled the heath and 
gums and wood. 

XLIII 

Night came, a starless and a moonless 
gloom. 

Until the dawn, those hosts of many a 
nation 

Stood round that pile, as near one lover's 
tomb 

Two gentle sisters mourn their desola- 
tion ; 

And in the silence of that expectation 

Was heard on high the reptiles' hiss and 
crawl — 

It was so deep, save when the devastation 

Of the swift pest with fearful interval, 
Marking its path with shrieks, among the 
crowd would fall. 

XLIV 

Morn came. — Among those sleepless 

multitudes, 
Madness, and Fear, and Plague, and 

Famine, still 
Heaped corpse on corpse, as in autumnal 

woods 
The frosts of many a wind with dead 

leaves fill 
Earth's cold and sullen brooks; in silence 

still. 



CANTO ELEVENTH 



125 



The pale survivors stood; ere noon the 

fear 
Of Hell became a panic, which did kill 
Like hunger or disease, with whispers 

drear, 
As * Hush ! hark ! come they yet ? — Just 

Heaven, thine hour is near ! ' 

XLV 

And Priests rushed through their ranks, 
some counterfeiting 

The rage they did inspire, some mad in- 
deed 

With their own lies. They said their 
god was waiting 

To see his enemies writhe, and burn, and 
bleed, — 

And that, till then, the snakes of Hell had 
need 

Of human souls; three hundred furnaces 

Soon blazed through the wide City, 
where, with speed. 

Men brought their infidel kindred to ap- 
pease 
God's wrath, and, while they burned, knelt 
round on quivering knees. 

XLVI 

The noontide sun was darkened with that 

smoke ; 
The winds of eve dispersed those ashes 

gray. 
The madness, which these rites had lulled, 

awoke 
Again at sunset. Who shall dare to say 
The deeds which night and fear brought 

forth, or weigh 
In balance just the good and evil there ? 
He might man's deep and searchless 

heart display. 
And cast a light on those dim labyrinths 

where 
Hope near imagined chasm?; is struggling 

with despair. 

XLVII 

'Tis said a mother dragged three chil- 
dren then 

To those fierce flames which roast the 
eyes in the head, 

And laughed, and died; and that unholy 
men. 

Feasting like fiends upon the infidel dead. 

Looked from their meal, and saw an 
angel tread 



The visible floor of Heaven, and it was 

she ! 
And, on that night, one without doubt or 

dread 
Came to the fire, and said, * Stop, I am 

he! 
Kill me ! ' — They burned them both with 

hellish mockery. 

XLVIII 

And, one by one, that night, young 

maidens came. 
Beauteous and calm, like shapes of living 

stone 
Clothed in the light of dreams, and by 

the flame. 
Which shrank as overgorged, they laid 

them down, 
And sung a low sweet song, of which 

alone 
One word was heard, and that was 

Liberty; 
And that some kissed their marble feet, 

with moan 
Like love, and died, and then that they 

did die 
With happy smiles, which sunk in white 

tranquillity. 



CANTO ELEVENTH 



She saw me not — she heard me not — 

alone 
Upon the mountain's dizzy brink she 

stood; 
She spake not, breathed not, moved not 

— there was thrown 
Over her look the shadow of a mood 
Which only clothes the heart in solitude, 
A thought of voiceless depth ; — she 

stood alone — 
Above, the Heavens were spread— be- 
low, the flood 
W^as murmuring in its caves — the wind 

had blown 
Her hair apart, through which her eyes 

and forehead shone. 

II 

A cloud was hanging o'er the western 

mountains; 
Before its blue and moveless depth were 

flying 



126 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Gray mists poured forth from the un- 
resting fountains 

Of darkness in the North; the day was 
dying; 

Sudden, the sun shone forth — its beams 
were lying 

Like boiling gold on Ocean, strange to 
see, 

And on the shattered vapors which, 
defying 

The power of light in vain, tossed rest- 
lessly 
In the red Heaven, like wrecks in a tem- 
pestuous sea. 

Ill 

It was a stream of living beams, whose 

bank 
On either side by the cloud's cleft was 

made; 
And where its chasms that flood of glory 

drank, 
Its waves gushed forth like fire, and as 

if swayed 
By some mute tempest, rolled on her) 

the shade 
Of her bright image floated on the river 
Of liquid light, which then did end and 

fade — 
Her radiant shape upon its verge did 

shiver; 
Aloft, her flowing hair like strings of flame 

did quiver. 

IV 

I stood beside her, but she saw me not — 
She looked upon the sea, and skies, and 

earth. 
Rapture and love and admiration wrought 
A passion deeper far than tears, or mirth. 
Or speech, or gesture, or whate'er has 

birth 
From common joy; which with the 

speechless feeling 
That led her there united, and shot forth 
From her far eyes a light of deep re- 
vealing. 
All but her dearest self from my regard 
concealing. 



Her lips were parted, and the measured 
breath 

Was now heard there; her dark and in- 
tricate eyes, 



Orb within orb, deeper than sleep oi 

death, 
Absorbed the glories of the burning 

skies, 
Which, mingling with her heart's deep 

ecstasies, 
Burst from her looks and gestures; and 

a light 
Of liquid tenderness, like love, did rise 
From her whole frame — an atmosphere 

which quite 
Arrayed her in its beams, tremulous and 

soft and bright. 

VI 

She would have clasped me to her glow- 
ing frame; 

Those warm and odorous lips might soon 
have shed 

On mine the fragrance and the invisible 
flame 

Which now the cold winds stole; she 
would have laid 

Upon my languid heart her dearest head; 

I might have heard her voice, tender and 
sweet; 

Her eyes, mingling with mine, might 
soon have fed 

My soul with their own joy. — One mo- 
ment yet 
I gazed — we parted then, never again to 
meet ! 

VII 

Never but once to meet on earth again ! 
She heard me as I fled — her eager tone 
Sunk on my heart, and almost wove a 

chain 
Around my will to link it with her own. 
So that my stern resolve was almost 

gone. 
* I cannot reach thee ! whither dost thou 

fly? 
My steps are faint. — Come back, thou 

dearest one — 
Return, ah me ! return ! ' — the wind 

passed by 
On which those accents died, faint, far, and 

lingeringly. 

VIII 

Woe ! woe ! that moonless midnight J 

Want and Pest 
Were horrible, but one more fell doth 

rear. 



CANTO ELEVENTH 



127 



As in a hydra's swarming lair, its crest 
Eminent among those victims — even the 

Fear 
Of Hell; each girt by the hot atmosphere 
Of his blind agony, like a scorpion stung 
By his own rage upon his burning bier 
Of circling coals of fire. But still there 

clung 
One hope, like a keen sword on starting 

threads uphung: — 

IX 

Not death — death was no more refuge 

or rest; 
Not life — it was despair to be ! — not 

sleep. 
For fiends and chasms of fire had dis- 
possessed 
All natural dreams; to wake was not to 

weep. 
But to gaze, mad and pallid, at the leap 
To which the Future, like a snaky 

scourge, 
Or like some tyrant's eye which aye doth 

keep 
Its withering beam upon his slaves, did 

urge 
Their steps; they heard the roar of Hell's 

sulphureous surge. 



Each of that multitude, alone and lost 
To sense of outward things, one hope 

yet knew; 
As on a foam-girt eras: some seaman 

tossed 
Stares at the rising tide, or like the crew 
Whilst now the ship is splitting through 

and through; 
Each, if the tramp of a far steed was 

heard. 
Started from sick despair, or if there 

flew 
One murmur on the wind, or if some 

word 
Which none can gather yet the distant 

crowd has stirred. 

XI 

Why became cheeks, wan with the kiss 
of death. 

Paler from hope ? they had sustained 
despair. 

Why watched those myriads with sus- 
pended breath 



Sleepless a second night ? they are not 
here. 

The victims — and hour by hour, a vision 
drear, 

Warm corpses fall upon the clay-cold 
dead; 

And even in death their lips are wreathed 
with fear. 

The crowd is mute and moveless — over- 
head 
Silent Arcturus shines — ha ! hear'st thou 
not the tread 

XII 

Of rushing feet ? laughter ? the shout, 

the scream 
Of triumph not to be contained ? See ! 

hark ! 
They come, they come ! give way ! Alas, 

ye deem 
Falsely — 'tis but a crowd of maniacs 

stark 
Driven, like a troop of spectres, through 

the dark 
From the choked well, whence a bright 

death-fire sprung, 
A lurid earth-star, which dropped many 

a spark 
From its blue train, and, spreading 

widely, clung 
To their wild hair, like mist the topmost 

pines among. 

XIII 

And many, from the crowd collected 

there, 
Joined that strange dance in fearful 

sympathies ; 
There was the silence of a long despair, 
When the last echo of those terrible cries 
Came from a distant street, like agonies 
Stifled afar. — Before the Tyrant's 

throne 
All night his ag^d Senate sate, their 

eyes 
In stony expectation fixed; when one 
Sudden before them stood, a Stranger and 

alone. 

XIV 

Dark Priests and haughty Warriors 

gazed on him 
With baffled wonder, for a hermit's vest 
Concealed his face; but when he spake, 

his tone 



128 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Ere yet the matter did their thoughts 

arrest — 
Earnest, benignant, calm, as from a 

breast 
Void of all hate or terror — made them 

start ; 
For as with gentle accents he addressed 
His speech to them, on each unwilling 

heart 
Unusual awe did fall — a spirit-quelling 

dart. 

XV 

* Ye Princes of the Earth, ye sit aghast 
Amid the ruin which yourselves have 

made; 
Yes, Desolation heard your trumpet's 

blast. 
And sprang from sleep ! — dark Terror 

has obeyed 
Your bidding. Oh, that I, whom ye have 

made 
Your foe, could set my dearest enemy 

free 
From pain and fear ! but evil casts a 

shade 
Which cannot pass so soon, and Hate 

must be 
The nurse and parent still of an ill progeny. 

XVI 

•Ye turn to Heaven for aid in your dis- 
tress; 

Alas, that ye, the mighty and the wise, 

Who, if ye dared, might not aspire to 
less 

Than ye conceive of power, should fear 
the lies 

Which thou, and thou, didst frame for 
mysteries 

To blind your slaves ! consider your own 
thought — 

An empty and a cruel sacrifice 

Ye now prepare for a vain idol wrought 
Out of the fears and hate which vain de- 
sires have brought. 

XVII 

* Ye seek for happiness — alas the day ! 
Ye find it not in luxury nor in gold, 
Nor in the fame, nor in the envied sway 
For which, O willing slaves to Custom 

old, 
Severe task - mistress, ye your hearts 
have sold. 



Ye seek for peace, and, when ye die, io 

dream 
No evil dreams ; — all mortal things are 

cold 
And senseless then; if aught survive, I 

deem 
It must be love and joy, for they immortal 

seem. 

XVIII 

* Fear not the future, weep not for the 

past. 
Oh, could I win your ears to dare be now 
Glorious, and great, and calm ! that ye 

would cast 
Into the dust those symbols of your woe, 
Purple, and gold, and steel ! that ye 

would go 
Proclaiming to the nations whence ye 

came 
That Want and Plague and Fear from 

slavery flow; 
And that mankind is free, and that the 

shame 
Of royalty and faith is lost in freedom's 

fame ! 

XIX 

' If thus 't is well — if not, I come to say 
That Laon — ' While the Stranger 

spoke, among 
The Council sudden tumult and affray 
Arose, for many of those warriors young 
Had on his eloquent accents fed and 

hung 
Like bees on mountain-flowers; they 

knew the truth, 
And from their thrones in vindication 

sprung; 
The men of faith and law then without 

ruth 
Drew forth their secret steel, and stabbed 

each ardent youth. 

XX 

They stabbed them in the back and 

sneered — a slave. 
Who stood behind the throne, those 

corpses drew 
Each to its bloody, dark and secret 

grave ; 
And one more daring raised his steel 

anew 
To pierce the Stranger: * What hast 

thou to do 



CANTO TWELFTH 



129 



With me, poor wretch ? ' — Calm, sol- 
emn and severe. 

That voice unstrung his sinews, and he 
threw 

His dagger on the ground, and, pale with 
fear. 
Sate silently — his voice then did the 
Stranger rear. 

XXI 

* It doth avail not that I weep for ye — 
Ye cannot change, since ye are old and 

gray, 
And ye have chosen your lot — your 

fame must be 
A book of blood, whence in a milder day 
Men shall learn truth, when ye are 

wrapped in clay; 
Now ye shall triumph. I am Laon's 

friend, 
And him to your revenge will I betray, 
So ye concede one easy boon. Attend ! 
For now I speak of things which ye can 

apprehend. 

XXII 

* There is a People mighty in its youth, 
A land beyond the Oceans of the West, 
Where, though with rudest rites. Free- 
dom and Truth 

Are worshipped; from a glorious Mo- 
ther's breast. 

Who, since high Athens fell, among the 
rest 

Sate like the Queen of Nations, but in 
woe, 

By inbred monsters outraged and op- 
pressed. 

Turns to her chainless child for succor 
now. 
It draws the milk of Power in Wisdom's 
fullest flow. 

XXIII 

* That land is like an Eagle, whose young 

gaze 
Feeds on the noontide beam, whose 

golden plume 
Floats moveless on the storm, and in the 

blaze 
Of sunrise gleams when earth is wrapped 

in gloom; 
An epitaph of glory for the tomb 
Of murdered Europe may thy fame be 

made, 



Great People ! as the sands shalt thou 

become ; 
Thy growth is swift as morn when night 
must fade; 
The multitudinous Earth shall sleep be- 
neath thy shade. 

XXIV 

* Yes, in the desert there is built a home 
For Freedom. Genius is made strong 

to rear 
The monuments of man beneath the 

dome 
Of a new Heaven; myriads assemble 

there, 
Whom the proud lords of man, in rage 

or fear. 
Drive from their wasted homes. The 

boon I pray 
Is this — that Cythna shall be convoyed 

there, — 
Nay, start not at the name — America ! 
And then to you this night Laon will I 

betray. 

XXV 

' With me do what ye will. I am your 

foe !' 
The light of such a joy as makes the 

stare 
Of hungry snakes like living emeralds 

glow 
Shone in a hundred human eyes, — 

' Where, where 
Is Laon ? haste ! fly ! drag him swiftly 

here ! 
We grant thy boon.' — * I put no trust 

in ye, 
Swear by the Power ye dread.' — 'We 

swear, we swear ! ' 
The Stranger threw his vest back sud- 
denly. 
And smiled in gentle pride, and said, ' Lo ! 

I am he ! ' 



CANTO TWELFTH 



The transport of a fierce and monstrous 

gladness 
Spread through the multitudinous streets, 

fast flying 
Upon the winds of fear; from his dull 

madness 



130 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



The starveling waked, and died in joy; 

the dying, 
Among the corpses in stark agony lying. 
Just heard the happy tidings, and in 

hope 
Closed their faint eyes; from house to 

house replying 
With loud acclaim, the living shook 

Heaven's cope, 
And filled the startled Earth with echoes. 

Morn did ope 

II 

Its pale eyes then ; and lo ! the long 

array 
Of guards in golden arms, and Priests 

beside, 
Singing their bloody hymns, whose garbs 

betray 
The blackness of the faith it seems to 

hide; 
And see the Tyrant's gem-wrought 

chariot glide 
Among the gloomy cowls and glittering 

spears — 
A Shape of light is sitting by his side, 
A child most beautiful. I' the midst 

appears 
Laon — exempt alone from mortal hopes 

and fears. 

Ill 
His head and feet are bare, his hands 

are bound 
Behind with heavy chains, yet none do 

wreak 
Their scoffs on him, though myriads 

throng around; 
There are no sneers upon his lip which 

speak 
That scorn or hate has made him bold; 

his cheek 
Resolve has not turned pale ; his eyes are 

mild 
^nd calm, and, like the morn about to 

break. 
Smile on mankind; his heart seems re- 
conciled 
To all things and itself, like a reposing 

child. 

IV 

Tumult was in the soul of all beside, 
111 joy, or doubt, or fear; but those who 
saw 



Their tranquil victim pass felt wonder 

glide 
Into their brain, and became calm with 

awe. — 
See, the slow pageant near the pile doth 

draw. 
A thousand torches in the spacious 

square. 
Borne by the ready slaves of ruthless law. 
Await the signal round ; the morning fair 
Is changed to a dim night by that unnat^ 

ural glare. 



And see ! beneath a sun-bright canopy, 
Upon a platform level with the pile. 
The anxious Tyrant sit, enthroned on 

high, 
Girt by the chieftains of the host; all 

smile 
In expectation but one child: the while 
I, Laon, led by mutes, ascend my bier 
Of fire, and look around ; — each distant 

isle 
Is dark in the bright dawn; towers far 

and near 
Pierce like reposing flames the tremulous 

atmosphere. 

VI 

There was such silence through the host 

as when 
An earthquake, trampling on some popu- 
lous town. 
Has crushed ten thousand with one tread, 

and men 
Expect the second; all were mute but 

one. 
That fairest child, who, bold with love, 

alone 
Stood up before the king, without avail. 
Pleading for Laou's life — her stifled 

groan 
Was heard — she trembled like one aspen 

pale 
Among the gloomy pines of a Norwegian 

vale. 

VII 

What were his thoughts linked in the 
morning sun. 

Among those reptiles, stingless with 
delay. 

Even like a tyrant's wrath ? — the sig- 
nal-gun 



CANTO TWELFTH 



131 



Roared — hark, agaiu ! in that dread 

pause he lay 
As in a quiet dream — the slaves obey — 
A thousand torches drop, — and hark, 

the last 
Bursts on that awful silence; far away 
Millions, with hearts that beat both loud 

and fast, 
Watch for the springing flame expectant 

and aghast. 

VIII 

They fly — the torches fall — a cry of 

fear 
Has startled the triumphant ! — they 

recede ! 
For, ere the cannon's roar has died, they 

hear 
The tramp of hoofs like earthquake, and 

a steed 
Dark and gigantic, with the tempest's 

speed, 
Bursts through their ranks; a woman 

sits thereon, 
Fairer it seems than aught that earth 

can breed, 
Calm, radiant, like the phantom of the 

dawn, 
A. spirit from the caves of daylight wan- 
dering gone. 

IX 

All thought it was God's Angel come to 

sweep 
The lingering guilty to their fiery grave ; 
The Tyrant from his throne in dread did 

leap, — 
Her innocence his child from fear did 

save; 
Scared by the faith they feigned, each 

priestly slave 
Knelt for His mercy whom they served 

with blood, 
And, like the refluence of a mighty 

wave 
Sucked into the loud sea, the multitude 
With crushing panic fled in terror's altered 

mood. 



They pause, they blush, they gaze; a 
gathering shout 

Bursts like one sound from the ten thou- 
sand streams 

Of a tempestuous sea; that sudden rout 



One checked who never in his mildest 

dreams 
Felt awe from grace or loveliness, the 

seams 
Of his rent heart so hard and cold a creed 
Had seared with blistering ice; but he 

misdeems 
That he is wise whose wounds do only 

bleed 
Inly for self, — thus thought the Iberian 

Priest indeed, 

XI 

And others, too, thought he was wise to 

see 
In pain, and fear, and hate, something 

divine — 
In love and beauty, no divinity. 
Now with a bitter smile, whose light did 

shine 
Like a fiend's hope upon his lips and 

eyne, 
He said, and the persuasion of that sneer 
Rallied his trembling comrades — * Is it 

mine 
To stand alone, when kings and soldiers 

fear 
A woman ? Heaven has sent its other 

victim here.' 

XII 

* Were it not impious,' said the King, * to 

break 
Our holy oath ? ' — ' Impious to keep it, 

say ! ' 
Shrieked the exulting Priest : — ' Slaves, 

to the stake 
Bind her, and on my head the burden lay 
Of her just torments; at the Judgment 

Day 
Will I stand up before the golden throne 
Of Heaven, and cry, — " To Thee did I 

betray 
An infidel ! but for me she would have 

known 
Another moment's joy ! " the glory be 

thine own.' 

XIII 
They trembled, but replied not, nor 

obeyed. 
Pausing in breathless silence. Cythna 

sprung 
From her gigantic steed, who, like a 

shade 



1$2 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



Chased by the winds, those vacant streets 

among 
Fled tameless, as the brazen rein she 

flung 
Upon his neck, and kissed his mooned 

brow. 
A piteous sight, that one so fair and 

young 
The clasp of such a fearful death should 

woo 
With smiles of tender joy as beamed from 

Cythna now. 

XIV 

The warm tears burst in spite of faith 

and fear 
From many a tremulous eye, but, like 

soft dews 
Which feed spring's earliest buds, hung 

gathered there, 
Frozen by doubt, — alas ! they could not 

choose 
But weep; for, when her faint limbs did 

refuse 
To climb the pyre, upon the mutes she 

smiled ; 
And with her eloquent gestures, and the 

hues 
Of her quick lips, even as a weary child 
Wins sleep from some fond nurse with its 

caresses mild, 

XV 

She won them, though unwilling, her to 

bind 
Near me, among the snakes. When then 

had fled 
One soft reproach that was most thrilling 

kind. 
She smiled on me, and nothing then we 

said. 
But each upon the other's countenance 

fed 
Looks of insatiate love; the mighty veil 
Which doth divide the living and the 

dead 
Was almost rent, the world grew dim 

and pale — 
A-U light in Heaven or Earth beside our 

love did fail. 

XVI 

Yet — yet — one brief relapse, like the 

last beam 
Of dying flames, the stainless air around 



Hung silent and serene — a blood-red 

gleam 
Burst upwards, hurling fiercely from the 

ground 
The globed smoke; I heard the mighty 

sound 
Of its uprise, like a tempestuous ocean; 
And, through its chasms I saw, as in a 

s wound, 
The Tyrant's child fall without life or 

motion 
Before his throne, subdued by some unseen 

emotion. — 

XVII 

And is this death ? — The pyre has dis- 
appeared. 
The Pestilence, the Tyrant, and the 

throng; 
The flames grow silent — slowly there is 

heard 
The music of a breath-suspending song, 
Which, like the kiss of love when life is 

young. 
Steeps the faint eyes in darkness sweet 

and deep; 
With ever-changing notes it floats along, 
Till on my passive soul there seemed to 

creep 
A melody, like waves on wrinkled sands 

that leap. 

XVIII 

The warm touch of a soft and tremulous 

hand 
Wakened me then; lo, Cythna sate re- 
clined 
Beside me, on the waved and golden sand 
Of a clear pool, upon a bank o'ertwined 
With strange and star-bright flowers 

which to the wind 
Breathed divine odor; high above was 

spread 
The emerald heaven of trees of unknown 

kind. 
Whose moonlike blooms and bright fruit 

overhead 
A shadow, which was light, upon the waters 

shed. 

XIX 

And round about sloped many a lawny 

mountain 
With incense-bearing forests and vast 

caves 



J 



CANTO TWELFTH 



133 



Of marble radiauce, to that mighty foun- 
tain; 
And, where the flood its own bright mar- 
gin laves, 
Their echoes talk with its eternal waves, 
Which from the depths whose jagged 

caverns breed 
Their unreposing strife it lifts and heaves, 
Till through a chasm of hills they roll, 
and feed 
A river deep, which flies with smooth but 
arrowy speed. 

XX 

As we sate gazing in a trance of wonder, 
A boat approached, borne by the musical 

air 
Along the waves which sung and sparkled 

under 
Its rapid keel. A winged Shape sate 

there, 
A child with silver-shining wings, so 

fair 
That, as her bark did through the waters 

glide. 
The shadow of the lingering waves did 

wear 
Light, as from starry beams; from side 

to side 
While veering to the wind her plumes the 

bark did guide. 

XXI 

The boat was one curved shell of hollow 

pearl, 
Almost translucent with the light divine 
Of her within; the prow and sterxi did 

curl. 
Horned on high, like the young moon 

supine. 
When o'er dim twilight mountains dark 

with pine 
It floats upon the sunset's sea of beams, 
Whose golden waves in many a purple 

line 
Fade fast, till, borne on sunlight's ebbing 

streams. 
Dilating, on earth's verge the sunken me- 
teor gleams. 

XXII 

Its keel has struck the sands beside our 

feet. 
Then Cythna turned to me, and from her 

eyes, 



Which swam with unshed tears, a look 
more sweet 

Than happy love, a wild and glad sur- 
prise, 

Glanced as she spake : ' Ay, this is Para- 
dise 

And not a dream, and we are all united I 

Lo, that is mine own child, who in the 
guise 

Of madness came, like day to one be- 
nighted 
In lonesome woods; my heart is now too 
well requited ! ' 

XXIII 

And then she wept aloud, and in her arms 
Clasped that bright Shape, less marvel- 
lously fair 
Than her own human hues and living 

charms. 
Which, as she leaned in passion's silence 

there, 
Breathed warmth on the cold bosom of 

the air, 
Which seemed to blush and tremble with 

delight; 
The glossy darkness of her streaming hair 
Fell o'er that snowy child, and wrapped 

from sight 
The fond and long embrace which did their 

hearts unitCo 

XXIV 

Then the bright child, the plumed 

Seraph, came, 
And fixed its blue and beaming eyes on 

mine, 
And said, ' I was disturbed by tremulous 

shame 
When once we met, yet knew that I was 

thine 
From the same hour in which thy lips 

divine 
Kindled a clinging dream within my 

brain, 
Which ever waked when I might sleep, 

to twine 
Thine image with her memory dear; 

again 
We meet, exempted now from mortal fear 

or pain. 

XXV 

* When the consuming flames had wrapped 
ye round, 



134 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 



The hope which I had cherished went 

away; 
I fell in agony on the senseless ground, 
And hid mine eyes in dust, and far astray 
My mind was gone, when bright, like 

dawning day. 
The Spectre of the Plague before me flew, 
And breathed upon my lips, and seemed 

to say, 
" They wait for thee, beloved ! " — then 

I knew 
Ihe death-mark on my breast, and became 

calm anew. 

XXVI 

* It was the calm of love — for I was 

dying. 
I saw the black and half-extinguished 

pyre 
In its own gray and shrunken ashes 

lying; 
The pitchy smoke of the departed fire 
Still hung in many a hollow dome and 

spire 
Above the towers, like night, — beneath 

whose shade, 
Awed by the ending of their own desire, 
The armies stood; a vacancy was made 
In expectation's depth, and so they stood 

dismayed. 

XXVII 

* The frightful silence of that altered mood 
The tortures of the dying clove alone. 
Till one uprose among the multitude, 
And said — " The flood of time is rolling 

on; 

We stand upon its brink, whilst they are 
gone 

To glide in peace down death's myste- 
rious stream. 

Have ye done well ? they moulder, flesh 
and bone, 

Who might have made this life's enven- 
omed dream 
A. sweeter draught than ye will ever taste, 
I deem. 

XXVIII 

* " These perish as the good and great of 

yore 
Have perished, and their murderers will 

repent; 
Yes, vain and barren tears shall flow 

before 



Yon smoke has faded from the firmai* 

ment. 
Even for this cause, that ye, who must 

lament 
The death of those that made this world 

so fair, 
Cannot recall them now; but then is lent 
To man the wisdom of a high despair. 
When such can die, and he live on and 

linger here. 

XXIX 

* " Ay, ye may fear not now the Pestilence, 

From fabled hell as by a charm with- 
drawn ; 

All power and faith must pass, since 
calmly hence 

In pain and fire have unbelievers gone; 

And ye must sadly turn away, and moan 

In secret, to his home each one returning; 

And to long ages shall this hour be 
known. 

And slowly shall its memory, ever burn- 
ing, 
Fill this dark night of things with an 
eternal morning. 

XXX 

' " For me that world is grown too void 

and cold. 
Since hope pursues immortal destiny 
With steps thus slow — therefore shall 

ye behold 
How those who love, yet fear not, dare 

to die; 
Tell to your children this! " then suddenly 
He sheathed a dagger in his heart, and 

fell; 
My brain grew dark in death, and yet to 

me 
There came a murmur from the crowd 

to tell 
Of deep and mighty change which suddenly 
befell. 

XXXI 

' Then suddenly I stood, a wingM Thought, 
Before the immortal Senate, and the seat 
Of that star-shining Spirit, whence is 

wrought 
The strength of its dominion, good and 

great, 
The Better Genius of this world's estate. 
His realm around one mighty Fane is 

spread. 



CANTO TWELFTH 



135 



Elysian islands bright and fortunate, 
Calm dwellings of the free and happy 

dead, 
Where I am sent to lead ! ' These winged 

words she said, 

XXXII 

And with the silence of her eloquent 

smile, 
Bade us embark in her divine canoe; 
Then at the helm we took our seat, the 

while 
Above her head those plumes of dazzling 

hue 
Into the winds' invisible stream she 

threw. 
Sitting beside the prow; like gossamer 
On the swift breath of morn the vessel 

flew 
O'er the bright whirlpools of that foun- 
tain fair. 
Whose shores receded fast while we seemed 

lingering there; 

XXXIII 

Till down that mighty stream dark, calm 

and fleet. 
Between a chasm of cedarn mountains 

riven. 
Chased by the thronging winds whose 

viewless feet, 
As swift as twinkling beams, had under 

Heaven 
From woods and waves wild sounds and 

odors driven, 
The boat fled visibly; three nights and 

days. 
Borne like a cloud through morn, and 

noon, and even. 
We sailed along the winding watery ways 
Of the vast stream, a long and labyrinthine 

maze. 

XXXIV 

A scene of joy and wonder to behold, — 

That river's shapes and shadows chang- 
ing ever. 

Where the broad sunrise filled with 
deepening gold 

Its whirlpools where all hues did spread 
and quiver; 

And where melodious falls did burst and 
shiver 

Among rocks clad with flowers, the foam 
and spray 



Sparkled like stars upon the sunny river; 
Or, when the moonlight poured a holier 

day, 
One vast and glittering lake around green 

islands lay. 

XXXV 

Morn, noon and even, that boat of pearl 

outran 
The streams which bore it, like the 

arrowy cloud 
Of tempest, or the speedier thought of 

man. 
Which flieth forth and cannot make 

abode ; 
Sometimes through forests, deep like 

night, we glode. 
Between the walls of mighty mountains 

crowned 
With Cyclopean piles, whose turrets 

proud, 
The homes of the departed, dimly 

frowned 
O'er the bright waves which girt their dark 

foundations round. 

XXXVI 

Sometimes between the wide and flow- 
ering meadows 
Mile after mile we sailed, and 't was 

delight 
To see far ofp the sunbeams chase the 

shadows 
Over the grass; sometimes beneath the 

night 
Of wide and vaulted caves, whose roofs 

were bright 
With starry gems, we fled, whilst from 

their deep 
And dark green chasms shades beautiful 

and white. 
Amid sweet sounds across our path would 

sweep, 
Like swift and lovely dreams that walk the 

waves of sleep. 

XXXVII 

And ever as we sailed, our minds were 
full 

Of love and wisdom, which would over- 
flow 

In converse wild, and sweet, and won- 
derful; 

And in quick smiles whose light would 
come and go, 



136 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



Like music o'er wide waves, and in the 
flow 

Of sudden tears, and in the mute caress; 

For a deep shade was cleft, and we did 
know. 

That virtue, though obscured on Earth, 
not less 
Survives all mortal change in lasting love- 
liness. 

XXXVIII 

Three days and nights we sailed, as 
thought and feeling 

Number delightful hours — for through 
the sky 

The sphered lamps of day and night, re- 
vealing 

New changes and new glories, rolled on 
high. 

Sun, Moon and moonlike lamps, the 
progeny 

Of a diviner Heaven, serene and fair; 

On the fourth day, wild as a wind- 
wrought sea 

The stream became, and fast and faster 
bare 
The spirit-winged boat, steadily speeding 
there. 

XXXIX 

Steady and swift, where the waves rolled 
like mountains 

Within the vast ravine, whose rifts did 
pour 

Tumultuous floods from their ten thou- 
sand fountains. 

The thunder of whose earth-uplifting 
roar 

Made the air sweep in whirlwinds from 
the shore, 



Calm as a shade, the boat of that fair 

child 
Securely fled that rapid stress before, 
Amid the topmost spray and sunbowa 

wild 
Wreathed in the silver mist; in joy and 

pride we smiled. 

XL 

The torrent of that wide and raging river 

Is passed, and our aerial speed suspended. 

We look behind; a golden mist did quiver 

When its wild surges with the lake were 
blended ; 

Our bark hung there, as on a line sus- 
pended 

Between two heavens, — that windless, 
waveless lake. 

Which four great cataracts from four 
vales, attended 

By mists, aye feed; from rocks and 
clouds they break, 
And of that azure sea a silent refuge make. 

XLI 

Motionless resting on the lake awhile, 
I saw its marge of snow-bright moun- 
tains rear 
Their peaks aloft; I saw each radiant 

isle; 
And in the midst, afar, even like a sphere 
Hung in one hollow sky, did there ap- 
pear 
The Temple of the Spirit; on the sound 
Which issued thence drawn nearer and 

more near 
Like the swift moon this glorious earth 
around. 
The charmed boat approached, and there 
its haven found. 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 
A MODERN ECLOGUE 



Rosalind and Helen was begun at Marlow as 
early as the summer of 1817, and was suffi- 
ciently far advanced to lead Shelley to send 
copy to the publisher just before leaving 
England in March, 1818 ; it was finished in 
August, at the Baths of Lucca, and published 
in the spring of 1819. Shelley's original Ad- 
vertisement to the volume, dated Naples, De- 
cember 20, 1818, opens with the following : 

'The story of Rosalind and Helen is, un- 



doubtedly, not an attempt in the highest style 
of poetry. It is in no degree calculated to 
excite profound meditation ; and if, by inter- 
esting the affections and amusing the imagin- 
ation, it awaken a certain ideal melancholy 
favorable to the reception of more important 
impressions, it will produce in the reader all 
that the writer experienced in the composition. 
I resigned myself, as I wrote, to the impulse 
of the feelings which moulded the conception 



IlOSALIND AND HELEN 



137 



of the story ; and this impulse determined the 
pauses of a measure, which only pretends to 
be regular inasmuch as it corresponds with, 
and expresses, the irregularity of the imagin- 
ations which inspired it.' 

The feelings here spoken of ' which moulded 
the conception of the story ' were suggested, in 
part, by the relation of Mrs. Shelley with a 
friend of her girlhood, Isabel Baxter, who fell 
away from her early attachment in consequence 
of Mrs. Shelley's flight with Shelley in July, 
1814, and was afterward reconciled with her. 
(Dowden, Life, ii. 130, 131.) Forman (Type 
Facsimile of the original edition, Shelley Soci- 
ety's Publications, Second Series, No. 17, In- 
troduction) discusses the matter at length, 
together with the reflection of political events 
in England possibly to be detected in the 
poem. Shelley wrote to Peacock, ' I lay no 
stress on it one way or the other.' Mrs. 
Shelley's note develops the reason for this 
indifference : 

' Bosalind and Helen was begun at Marlow, 
and thrown aside, till I found it ; and, at my 



request, it was completed. Shelley had no 
care for any of his poems that did not ema- 
nate from the depths of his mind, and develop 
some high or abstruse truth. When he does 
touch on human life and the human heart, no 
pictures can be more faithful, more delicate, 
more subtle, or more pathetic. He never men- 
tioned Love, but he shed a grace, borrowed 
from his own nature, that scarcely any other 
poet has bestowed on that passion. When he 
spoke of it as the law of life, which inasmuch 
as we rebel against, we err and injure ourselves 
and others, he promulgated that which he con- 
sidered an irrefragable truth. In his eyes it 
was the essence of our being, and all woe and 
pain arose from the war made against it by 
selfishness, or insensibility, or mistake. By 
reverting in his mind to this first principle, he 
discovered the source of many emotions, and 
could disclose the secrets of all hearts, and his 
delineations of passion and emotion touch the 
finest chords in our nature. Rosalind and Helen 
was finished during the summer of 1818, while 
we were at the Baths of Lucca.' 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 

Rosalind, Helen, and her Child. 
Scene. The Shore of the Lake of Coma. 

HELEN 

Come hither, my sweet Rosalind. 

'T is long since thou and I have met; 

And yet methinks it were unkind 

Those moments to forget. 

Come, sit by me. I see thee stand 

By this lone lake, in this far land. 

Thy loose hair in the light wind flying. 

Thy sweet voice to each tone of even 

United, and thine eyes replying 

To the hues of yon fair heaven. 10 

Come, gentle friend ! wilt sit by me ? 

And be as thou wert wont to be 

Ere we were disunited ? 

None doth behold us now; the power 

That led us forth at this lone hour 

Will be but ill requited 

If thou depart in scorn. Oh, come, 

And talk of our abandoned home ! 

Remember, this is Italy, 

And we are exiles. Talk with me 20 

Of that our land, whose wilds and floods. 

Barren and dark although they be, 

Were dearer than these chestnut woods; 

Those heathy paths, that inland stream. 

And the blue mountains, shapes which seem 

Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream; 



Which that we have abandoned now, 
Weighs on the heart like that remorse 
Which altered friendship leaves. I seek 
No more our youthful intercourse. 30 

That cannot be ! Rosalind, speak. 
Speak to me ! Leave me not ! When morn 

did come. 
When evening fell upon our common home, 
When for one hour we parted, — do not 

frown ; 
I would not chide thee, though thy faith is 

broken ; 
But turn to me. Oh ! by this cherished 

token 
Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown. 
Turn, as 't were but the memory of me, 
And not my scornfed self who prayed to thee ! 

ROSALIND 

Is it a dream, or do I see 40 

And hear frail Helen ? I would flee 

Thy tainting touch; but former years 

Arise, and bring forbidden tears; 

And my o'erburdened memory 

Seeks yet its lost repose in thee. 

I share thy crime. I cannot choose 

But weep for thee; mine own strange grief 

But seldom stoops to such relief; 

Nor ever did I love thee less. 

Though mourning o'er thy wickedness ; 

Even with a sister's woe. I knew 

What to the evil world is due, 



138 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



And therefore sternly did refuse 
To link me with the infamy 
Of one so lost as Helen. Now, 
Bewildered by my dire despair, 
Wondering I blush, and weep that thou 
Shouldst love me still — thou only ! — 

There, 
Let us sit on that gray stone 
Till our mournful talk be done. 60 

HELEN 

Alas ! not there; I cannot bear 

The murmur of this lake to hear. 

A sound from there, Rosalind dear. 

Which never yet I heard elsewhere 

But in our native land, recurs. 

Even here where now we meet. It stirs 

Too much of suffocating sorrow ! 

In the dell of yon dark chestnut wood 

Is a stone seat, a solitude 

Less like our own. The ghost of peace 70 

Will not desert this spot. To-morrow, 

If thy kind feelings should not cease, 

We may sit here. 

ROSALIND 

Thou lead, my sweet. 
And I will follow. 

HENRY 

'T is Fenici's seat 
Where you are going ? This is not the 

way. 
Mamma; it leads behind those trees that 

grow 
Close to the little river. 

HELEN 

Yes, I know; 
I was bewildered. Kiss me and be gay. 
Dear boy; why do you sob ? 

HENRY 

I do not know; 
But it might break any one's heart to see 80 
You and the lady cry so bitterly. 

HELEN 

It is a gentle child, my friend. Go home, 
Henry, and play with Lilla till I come. 
We only cried with joy to see each other; 
We are quite merry now. Good night. 

The boy 
Lifted a sudden look upon his mother, 



And, in the gleam of forced and hollow 

joy 

Which lightened o'er her face, laughed with 

the glee 
Of light and unsuspecting infancy. 
And whispered in her ear, 'Bring home 

with you 90 

That sweet strange lady-friend.' Then off 

he flew, 
But stopped, and beckoned with a meaning 

smile. 
Where the road turned. Pale Rosalind 

the while. 
Hiding her face, stood weeping silently. 

In silence then they took the way 

Beneath the forest's solitude. 

It was a vast and antique wood, 

Through which they took their way; 

And the gray shades of evening 

O'er that green wilderness did fling 100 

Still deeper solitude. 

Pursuing still the path that wound 

The vast and knotted trees around, 

Through which slow shades were wander- 

To a deep lawny dell they came, 
To a stone seat beside a spring, 
O'er which the columned wood did frame 
A roofless temple, like the fane 
Where, ere new creeds could faith ob- 
tain, 
Man's early race once knelt beneath u© 
The overhanging deity. 
O'er this fair fountain hung the sky, 
Now spangled with rare stars. The snake, 
The pale snake, that with eager breath 
Creeps here his noontide thirst to slake, 
Is beaming with many a mingled hue, 
Shed from yon dome's eternal blue. 
When he floats on that dark and lucid 

flood 
In the light of his own loveliness; 
And the birds, that in the fountain dip im 
Their plumes, with fearless fellowship 
Above and round him wheel and hover. 
The fitful wind is heard to stir 
One solitary leaf on high; 
The chirping of the grasshopper 
Fills every pause. There is emotion 
In all that dwells at noontide here; 
Then through the intricate wild wood 
A maze of life and light and motion 
Is woven. But there is stillness now — 12c 
Gloom, and the trance of Nature now. 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



^39 



The snake is in his cave asleep; 

The birds are on the branches dreaming; 

Only the shadows creep; 

Only the glow-worm is gleaming; 

Only the owls and the nightingales 

Wake in this dell when daylight fails, 

And gray shades gatlier in the woods; 

And the owls have all fled far away 

In a merrier glen to hoot and play, 140 

For the moon is veiled and sleeping now. 

The accustomed nightingale still broods 

On her accustomed bough, 

But she is mute; for her false mate 

Has fled and left her desolate. 

This silent spot tradition old 
Had peopled with the spectral dead. 
For the roots of the speaker's hair felt cold 
And stiff, as with tremulous lips he told 
That a hellish shape at midnight led 150 
The ghost of a youth with hoary hair, 
And sate on the seat beside him there. 
Till a naked child came wandering by. 
When the fiend would change to a lady 

fair ! 
A fearful tale ! the truth was worse ; 
For here a sister and a brother 
Had solemnized a monstrous curse, 
Meeting in this fair solitude; 
For beneath yon very sky. 
Had they resigned to one another 160 

Body and soul. The multitude. 
Tracking them to the secret wood, 
Tore limb from limb their innocent child. 
And stabbed and trampled on its mother; 
But the youth, for God's most holy grace, 
A priest saved to burn in the market-place. 

Duly at evening Helen came 

To this lone silent spot, 

From the wrecks of a tale of wilder sorrow 

So much of sympathy to borrow 170 

As soothed her own dark lot. 

Duly each evening from her home, 

With her fair child would Helen come 

To sit upon that antique seat, 

While the hues of day were pale; 

And the bright boy beside her feet 

Now lay, lifting at intervals 

His broad blue eye« on her; 

Now, where some sudden impulse calls, 

Following. He was a gentle boy 180 

And in all gentle sports took joy. 

Oft in a dry leaf for a boat, 

With a small feather for a sail, 



His fancy on that spring would float, 

If some invisible breeze might stir 

Its marble calm; and Helen smiled 

Through tears of awe on the gay child, 

To think that a boy as fair as he, 

In years which never more may be. 

By that same fount, in that same wood, 190 

The like sweet fancies had pursued; 

And that a mother, lost like her, 

Had mournfully sate watching him. 

Then all the scene was wont to swim 

Through the mist of a burning tear. 

For many months had Helen known 

This scene ; and now she thither turned 

Her footsteps, not alone. 

The friend whose falsehood she had 

mourned 
Sate with her on that seat of stone. 200 

Silent they sate; for evening. 
And the power its glimpses bring. 
Had with one awful shadow quelled 
The passion of their grief. They sate 
With linked hands, for unrepelled 
Had Helen taken Rosalind's. 
Like the autumn wind, when it unbinds 
The tangled locks of the nightshade's hair 
Which is twined in the sultry summer air 
Round the walls of an outworn sepulchre. 
Did the voice of Helen, sad and sweet, an 
And the sound of her heart that ever beat 
As with sighs and words she breathed on 

her, 
Unbind the knots of her friend's despair. 
Till her thoughts were free to float and flow,* 
And from her laboring bosom now, 
Like the bursting of a prisoned flame. 
The voice of a long-pent sorrow came. 

ROSALIND 

I saw the dark earth fall upon . 
The coffin; and I saw the stone 220 

Laid over him whom this cold breast 
Had pillowed to his nightly rest ! 
Thou knowest not, thou canst not know 
My agony. Oh ! I could not weep. 
The sources whence such blessings flow 
Were not to be approached by me ! 
But I could smile, and I could sleep, 
Though with a self-accusing heart. 
In morning's light, in evening's gloom, 
I watched — and would not thence de- 
part — 230 
My husband's unlamented tomb. 
My children knew their sire wa« gone; 
But when I told them, ' He is dea4,* 



140 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



They laughed aloud in frantic glee, 

They clapped their hands and leaped about, 

Answering each other's ecstasy 

With many a prank and merry shout. 

But I sate silent and alone. 

Wrapped in the mock of mourning weed. 

They laughed, for he was dead; but I 240 
Sate with a hard and tearless eye, 
And with a heart which would deny 
The secret joy it could not quell, 
Low muttering o'er his loathed name; 
Till from that self-contention came 
Remorse where sin was none; a hell 
Which in pure spirits should not dwell. 

I '11 tell thee truth. He was a man 

Hard, selfish, loving only gold. 

Yet full of guile; his pale eyes ran 250 

With tears which each some falsehood told. 

And oft his smooth and bridled tongue 

Would give the lie to his flushing cheek; 

He was a coward to the strong; 

He was a tyrant to the weak, 

On whom his vengeance he would wreak; 

For scorn, whose arrows search the heart. 

From many a stranger's eye would dart. 

And on his memory cling, and follow 

His soul to its home so cold and hollow. 260 

He was a tyrant to the weak. 

And we were such, alas the day ! 

Oft, when my little ones at play 

Were in youth's natural lightness gay, 

Or if they listened to some tale 

Of travellers, or of fairyland. 

When the light from the wood-fire's dying 

brand 
Flashed on their faces, — if they heard 
Or thought they heard upon the stair 
His footstep, the suspended word 270 

Died on my lips; we all grew pale; 
The babe at my bosom was hushed with 

fear 
If it thought it heard its father near; 
And my two wild boys would near my knee 
Cling, cowed and cowering fearfully. 

I '11 tell thee truth: I loved another. 
His name in my ear was ever ringing. 
His form to my brain was ever clinging; 
Yet, if some stranger breathed that name. 
My lips turned white, and my heart beat 

fast. 280 

My nights were once haunted by dreams of 

flame, 



My days were dim in the shadow cast 

By the memory of the same ! 

Day and night, day and night. 

He was my breath and life and light, 

For three short years, which soon were 

passed. 
On the fourth, my gentle mother 
Led me to the shrine, to be 
His sworn bride eternally. 
And now we stood on the altar stair, 290 
When my father came from a distant land, 
And with a loud and fearful cry 
Rushed between us suddenly. 
I saw the stream of his thin gray hair, 
I saw his lean and lifted hand. 
And heard his words — and live ! O God ! 
Wherefore do I live ? — * Hold, hold ! ' 
He cried, ' I tell thee 'tis her brother ! 
Thy mother, boy, beneath the sod 
Of yon churchyard rests in her shroud so 

cold ; 3o« 

I am now weak, and pale, and old; 
We were once dear to one another, 
I and that corpse ! Thou art our child ! ' 
Then with a laugh both long and wild 
The youth upon the pavement fell. 
They found him dead ! All looked on 

me. 
The spasms of my despair to see; 
But I was calm. I went away; 
I was clammy-cold like clay. 
I did not we'ep; I did not speak; 31c 

But day by day, week after week, 
I walked about like a corpse alive. 
Alas ! sweet friend, you must believe 
This heart is stone — it did not break. 

My father lived a little while, 

But all might see that he was dying, 

He smiled with such a woful smile. 

When he was in the churchyard lying 

Among the worms, we grew quite poor, 

So that no one would give us bread; 32c 

My mother looked at me, and said 

Faint words of cheer, which only meant 

That she could die and be content; 

So I went forth from the same church door 

To another husband's bed. 

And this was he who died at last. 

When weeks and months and years had 

passed. 
Through which I firmly did fulfil 
My duties, a devoted wnfe. 
With the stern step of vanquished will 330 
Walking beneath the night of life, 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



141 



Whose hours extinguished, like slow rain 

Falling forever, pain by pain, 

The very hope of death's dear rest; 

Which, since the heart within my breast 

Of natural life was dispossessed, 

Its strange sustainer there had been. 

When flowers were dead, and grass was 

green 
Upon my mother's grave — that mother 
Whom to outlive, and cheer, and make 340 
My wan eyes glitter for her sake, 
Was my vowed task, the single care 
Which once gave life to my despair — 
When she was a thing that did not stir. 
And the crawling worms were cradling her 
To a sleep more deep and so more sweet 
Than a baby's rocked on its nurse's knee, 
I lived; a living pulse then beat 
Beneath my heart that awakened me. 
What was this pulse so warm and free ? 350 
Alas ! I knew it could not be 
My own dull blood. 'T was like a thought 
Of liquid love, that spread and wrought 
Under my bosom and in my brain, 
And crept with the blood through every 

vein, 
And hour by hour, day after day, 
The wonder could not charm away 
But laid in sleep my wakeful pain. 
Until I knew it was a child. 
And then I wept. For long, long years 360 
These frozen eyes had shed no tears; 
But now — 't was the season fair and mild 
When April has wept itself to May; 
I sate through the sweet sunny day 
By my window bowered round with leaves, 
And down my cheeks the quick tears ran 
Like twinkling rain-drops from the eaves, 
When warm spring showers are passing 

o'er. 

Helen, none can ever tell 

The joy it was to weep once more ! 370 

1 wept to think how hard it were 
To kill my babe, and take from it 
The sense of light, and the warm air. 
And my own fond and tender care. 
And love and smiles; ere I knew yet 
That these for it might, as for me, 
Be the masks of a grinning mockery. 
And haply, I would dream, 't were sweet 
To feed it from my faded breast. 

Or mark my own heart's restless beat 380 
Rock it to its untroubled rest, 



And watch the growing soul beneath 
Dawn in faint smiles; and hear its breath, 
Half interrupted by calm sighs. 
And search the depth of its fair eyes 
For long departed memories ! 
And so I lived till that sweet load 
Was lightened. Darkly forward flowed 
The stream of years, and on it bore 
Two shapes of gladness to my sight; 39c 
Two other babes, delightful more. 
In my lost soul's abandoned night. 
Than their own country ships may be 
Sailing towards wrecked mariners 
Who cling to the rock of a wintry sea. 
For each, as it came, brought soothing 

tears; 
And a loosening warmth, as each one lay 
Sucking the sullen milk away, 
About my frozen heart did play, 
And weaned it, oh, how painfully — 400 
As they themselves were weaned each one 
From that sweet food — even from the 

thirst 
Of death, and nothingntss, and rest, 
Strange inmate of a living breast. 
Which all that I had undergone 
Of grief and shame, since she who first 
The gates of that dark refuge closed 
Came to my sight, and almost burst 
The seal of that Lethean spring — 
But these fair shadows interposed. 41c 

For all delights are shadows now ! 
And from my brain to my dull brow 
The heavy tears gather and flow. 
I cannot speak — oh, let me weep ! 

The tears which fell from her wan eyes 
Glimmered among the moonlight dew. 
Her deep hard sobs and heavy sighs 
Their echoes in the darkness threw. 
When she grew calm, she thus did keep 
The tenor of her tale: — 

He died; 420 
I know not how; he was not old, 
If age be numbered by its years; 
But he was bowed and bent with fears. 
Pale with the quenchless thirst of gold. 
Which, like fierce fever, left him weak; 
And his strait lip and bloated cheek 
Were warped in spasms by hollow sneers; 
And selfish cares with barren plough, 
Not age, had lined his narrow brow, 
And foul and cruel thoughts, which feed 434 
Upon the withering life within. 



142 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



Like vipers on some poisonous weed. 
Whether his ill were death or sin 
None knew, until he died indeed, 
And then men owned they were the same. 

Seven days within my chamber lay 

That corse, and my babes made holiday. 

At last, I told them what is death. 

The eldest, with a kind of shame. 

Came to my knees with silent breath, 440 

And sate awe-stricken at my feet; 

And soon the others left their play, 

And sate there too. It is unmeet 

To shed on the brief flower of youth 

The withering knowledge of the grave. 

From me remorse then wrung that truth. 

I could not bear the joy which gave 

Too just a response to mine own. 

In vain. I dared not feign a groan; 

And in their artless looks I saw, 450 

Between the mists of fear and awe. 

That my own thought was theirs ; and they 

Expressed it not in words, but said. 

Each in its heart, how every day 

Will pass in happy work and play, 

Now he is dead and gone away ! 

After the funeral all our kin 
Assembled, and the will was read. 
My friend, I tell thee, even the dead 
Have strength, their putrid shrouds within. 
To blast and torture. Those who live 461 
Still fear the living, but a corse 
Is merciless, and Power doth give 
To such pale tyrants half the spoil 
He rends from those who groan and toil, 
Because they blush not with remorse 
Among their crawling worms. Behold, 
I have no child ! my tale grows old 
With grief, and staggers; let it reach 
The limits of my feeble speech, 470 

And languidly at length recline 
On the brink of its own grave and mine. 

Thou knowest what a thing is Poverty 
Among the fallen on evil days. 
'T is Crime, and Fear, and Infamy, 
And houseless Want in frozen ways 
Wandering ungarmented, and Pain, 
And, worse than all, that inward stain. 
Foul Self-contempt, which drowns in sneers 
Youth's starlight smile, and makes its 
tears 480 

First like hot gall, then dry forever ! 
And well thou knowest a mother never 



Could doom her children to this ill. 

And well he knew the same. The will 

Imported that, if e'er again 

I sought my children to behold, 

Or in my birthplace did remain 

Beyond three days, whose hours were told, 

They should inherit nought; and he, 

To whom next came their patrimony, 490 

A sallow lawyer, cruel and cold. 

Aye watched me, as the will was read, 

With eyes askance, which sought to see 

The secrets of my agony; 

And with close lips and anxious brow 

Stood canvassing still to and fro 

The chance of my resolve, and all 

The dead man's caution just did call; 

For in that killing lie 't was said — 

' She is adulterous, and doth hold 500 

In secret that the Christian creed 

Is false, and therefore is much need 

That I should have a care to save 

My children from eternal fire.' 

Friend, he was sheltered by the grave, 

And therefore dared to be a liar ! 

In truth, the Indian on the pyre 

Of her dead husband, half consumed. 

As well might there be false as I 

To those abhorred embraces doomed, 510 

Far worse than fire's brief agony. 

As to the Christian creed, if true 

Or false, I never questioned it; 

I took it as the vulgar do; 

Nor my vexed soul had leisure yet 

To doubt the things men say, or deem 

That they are other than they seem. 

All present who those crimes did hear. 

In feigned or actual scorn and fear, 

Men, women, children, slunk away, S2c 

Whispering with self-contented pride 

Which half suspects its own base lie. 

I spoke to none, nor did abide, 

But silently I went my way, 

Nor noticed I where joyously 

Sate my two younger babes at play 

In the courtyard through which I passed* 

But went with footsteps firm and fast 

Till I came to the brink of the ocean 

green. 
And there, a woman with gray hairs, 53a 
Who had my mother's servant been. 
Kneeling, with many tears and prayers. 
Made me accept a purse of gold. 
Half of the earnings she had kept 
To refuge her when weak and old. 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



143 



With woe, which never sleeps or slept, 
I wander now. 'T is a vain thought — 
But on yon Alp, whose snowy head 
'Mid the azure air is islanded, 
(We see it — o'er the flood of cloud, 540 
Which sunrise from its eastern caves 
Drives, wrinkling into golden waves, 
Hung with its precipices proud — 
From that gray stone where first we met) 
There — now who knows the dead feel 

nought ? — 
Should be my grave; for he who yet 
Is my soul's soul once said : ' 'T were sweet 
'Mid stars and lightnings to abide, 
And winds, and lulling snows that beat 
With their soft flakes the mountain wide, 
Where weary meteor lamps repose, 551 

And languid storms their pinions close. 
And all things strong and bright and pure. 
And ever during, aye endure. 
Who knows, if one were buried there. 
But these things might our spirits make, 
Amid the all-surrounding air. 
Their own eternity partake ? ' 
Then 't was a wild and playful saying 
At which I laughed or seemed to laugh. 560 
They were his words — now heed my pray- 
ing, 
And let them be my epitaph. 
Thy memory for a term may be 
My monument. Wilt remember me ? 
I know thou wilt; and canst forgive, 
Whilst in this erring world to live 
My soul disdained not, that I thought 
Its lying forms were worthy aught, 
And much less thee. 

HELEN 

Oh, speak not so ! 
But come to me and pour thy woe 570 

Into this heart, full though it be, 
Aye overflowing with its own. 
I thought that grief had severed me 
From all beside who weep and groan, 
Its likeness upon earth to be — 
Its express image; but thou art 
More wretched. Sweet, we will not part 
Henceforth, if death be not division; 
If so, the dead feel no contrition. 
But wilt thou hear, since last we parted, 580 
All that has left me broken-hearted ? 

ROSALIND 

Yes, speak. The faintest stars are scarcely 
shorn 



Of their thin beams by that delusive morn 
Which sinks again in darkness, like the 

light 
Of early love, soon lost in total night. 

HELEN 

Alas ! Italian winds are mild, 

But my bosom is cold — wintry cold; 

When the warm air weaves, among the 

fresh leaves. 
Soft music, my poor brain is wild. 
And I am weak like a nursling child, 590 
Though my soul with grief is gray and 

old. 

ROSALIND 

Weep not at thine own words, though they 

must make 
Me weep. What is thy tale ? 

HELEN 

I fear 't will shake 
Thy gentle heart with tears. Thou well 
Rememberest when we met no more; 
And, though I dwelt with Lionel, 
That friendless caution pierced me sore 
With grief; a wound my spirit bore 
Indignantly — but when he died, 
With him lay dead both hope and pride. 

Alas ! all hope is buried now. 601 

But then men dreamed the aged earth 
Was laboring in that mighty birth 
Which many a poet and a sage 
Has aye foreseen — the happy age 
When truth and love shall dwell below 
Among the works and ways of men; 
Which on this world not power but will 
Even now is wanting to fulfil. 

Among mankind what thence befell 610 

Of strife, liow vain, is known fno well; 
When Liberty's dear paean fell 
'Mid murderous howls. To Lionel, 
Though of great wealth and lineage high, 
Yet through those dungeon walls there 

came 
Thy thrilling light, O Liberty ! 
And as the meteor's midnight flame 
Startles the dreamer, sun-like truth 
Flashed on his visionary youth. 
And filled him, not with love, but faith, 62* 
And hope, and courage mute in death; 
For love and life in him were twins, 
Born at one birth. In every other 



144 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



First life, then love, its course begins, 

Though they be children of one mother; 

And so through this dark world they fleet 

Divided, till in death they meet; 

But he loved all things ever. Then 

He passed amid the strife of men. 

And stood at the throne of armM power 

Pleading for a world of woe. 631 

Secure as one on a rock-built tower 

O'er the wrecks which the surge trails to 

and fro, 
'Mid the passions wild of humankind 
He stood, like a spirit calming them; 
For, it was said, his words could bind 
Like music the lulled crowd, and stem 
That torrent of unquiet dream 
Which mortals truth and reason deem, 
But is revenge and fear and pride. 640 

Joyous he was; and hope and peace 
On all who heard him did abide. 
Raining like dew from his sweet talk, 
As where the evening star may walk 
Along the brink of the gloomy seas, 
Liquid mists of splendor quiver. 
His very gestures touched to tears 
The unpersuaded tyrant, never 
So moved before; his presence stung 
The torturers with their victim's pain, 650 
And none knew how; and through their 

ears 
The subtle witchcraft of his tongue 
Unlocked the hearts of those who keep 
Gold, the world's bond of slavery. 
Men wondered, and some sneered to see 
One sow what he could never reap; 
For he is rich, they said, and young. 
And might drink from the depths of luxury. 
If he seeks fame, fame never crowned 
The champion of a trampled creed; 660 

If he seeks power, power is enthroned 
'Mid ancient rights and wrongs, to feed 
Which hungry wolves with praise and spoil 
Those who would sit near power must toil; 
And such, there sitting, all may see. 
What seeks he ? All that others seek 
He casts away, like a vile weed 
Which the sea casts unreturningly. 
That poor and hungry men should break 
The laws which wreak them toil and scorn 
We understand; but Lionel, 671 

We know, is rich and nobly born. 
So wondered they; yet all men loved 
Young Lionel, though few approved; 
All but the priests, whose hatred fell 
Like the unseen blight of a smiling day, 



The withering honey-dew which clings 
Under the bright green buds of May 
Whilst they unfold their emerald wings; 
For he made verses wild and queer 68« 

On the strange creeds priests hold so dear 
Because they bring them land and gold. 
Of devils and saints and all such gear 
He made tales which whoso heard or read 
Would laugh till he were almost dead. 
So this grew a proverb: ' Don't get old 
Till Lionel's Banquet in Hell you hear, 
And then you will laugh yourself young 

again.' 
So the priests hated him, and he 
Repaid their hate with cheerful glee. 690 

Ah, smiles and joyance quickly died. 
For public hope grew pale and dim 
In an altered time and tide. 
And in its wasting withered him, 
As a summer flower that blows too soon 
Droops in the smile of the waning moon, 
When it scatters through an April night 
The frozen dews of wrinkling blight. 
None now hoped more. Gray Power was 

seated 
Safely on her ancestral throne; 700 

And Faith, the Python, undefeated 
Even to its blood-stained steps dragged on 
Her foul and wounded train; and men 
Were trampled and deceived again, 
And words and shows again could bind 
The wailing tribes of humankind 
In scorn and famine. Fire and blood 
Raged round the raging multitude. 
To fields remote by tyrants sent 
To be the scorned instrument 710 

With which they drag from mines of gore 
The chains their slaves yet ever wore; 
And in the streets men met each other. 
And by old altars and in halls, 
And smiled again at festivals. 
But each man found in his heart's brother 
Cold cheer; for all, though half deceived, 
The outworn creeds again believed, 
And the same round anew began 
Which the weary world yet ever ran. 720 

Many then wept, not tears, but gall, 

Within their hearts, like drops which fall 

Wasting the fountain-stone away. 

And in that dark and evil day 

Did all desires and thoughts that claim 

Men's care — ambition, friendship, fame. 

Love, hope, though hope was now despair — ■ 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



US 



Indue the colors of this change, 
As from the all-surrounding air 729 

The earth takes hues obscure and strange, 
When storm and earthquake linger there. 

And so, my friend, it then befell 

To many, — most to Lionel, 

Whose hope was like the life of youth 

Within him, and when dead became 

A spirit of unresting flame, 

Which goaded him in his distress 

Over the world's vast wilderness. 

Three years he left his native land, 

And on the fourth, when he returned, 740 

None knew him; he was stricken deep 

With some disease of mind, and turned 

Into aught unlike Lionel. 

On him — on whom, did he pause in sleep, 

Serenest smiles were wont to keep. 

And, did he wake, a winged band 

Of bright Persuasions, which had fed 

On his sweet lips and liquid eyes. 

Kept their swift pinions half outspread 

To do on men his least command — 750 

On him, whom once 't was paradise 

Even to behold, now misery lay. 

In his own heart 't was merciless — 

To all things else none may express 

Its innocence and tenderness. 

'T was said that he had refuge sought 

In love from his unquiet thought 

In distant lands, and been deceived 

By some strange show; for there were 

found. 
Blotted with tears — as those relieved 760 
By their own words are wont to do — 
These mournful verses on the ground. 
By all who read them blotted too. 

* How am I changed ! my hopes were once 

like fire; 
I loved, and I believed that life was love. 
How am I lost ! on wings of swift desire 
Among Heaven's winds my spirit once 
did move. 
I slept, and silver dreams did aye inspire 

My liquid sleep ; I woke, and did approve 
All Nature to my heart, and thought to 
make 770 

A paradise of earth for one sweet sake. 

* I love, but I believe in love no more. 

I feel desire, but hope not. Oh, from 
sleep 



Most vainly must my weary brain implore 
Its long lost flattery now ! I wake to 
weep. 

And sit through the long day gnawing the 
core 
Of my bitter heart, and, like a miser, 
keep — 

Since none in what I feel take pain or 
pleasure — 

To my own soul its self-consuming trea- 
sure.' 

He dwelt beside me near the sea; 780 

And oft in evening did we meet. 

When the waves, beneath the starlight, 

flee 
O'er the yellow sands with silver feet. 
And talked. Our talk was sad and sweet. 
Till slowly from his mien there passed 
The desolation which it spoke; 
And smiles — as when the lightning's blast 
Has parched some heaven-delighting oak, 
The next spring shows leaves pale and 

rare. 
But like flowers delicate and fair, 790 

On its rent boughs — again arrayed 
His countenance in tender light; 
His words grew subtle fire, which made 
The air his hearers breathed delight; 
His motions, like the winds, were free, 
Which bend the bright grass gracefully, 
Then fade away in circlets faint; 
And winged Hope — on which upborne 
His soul seemed hovering in his eyeSj 
Like some bright spirit newly born 80a 

Floating amid the sunny skies — 
Sprang forth from his rent heart anew. 
Yet o'er his talk, and looks, and mien, 
Tempering their loveliness too keen. 
Past woe its shadow backward threw; 
Till, like an exhalation spread 
From flowers half drunk with evening dew, 
They did become infectious — sweet 
And subtle mists of sense and thought, 
Which wrapped us soon, when we might 

meet, 810 

Almost from our own looks and aught 
The wild world holds. And so his mind 
Was healed, while mine grew sick with 

fear; 
For ever now his health declined. 
Like some frail bark which cannot bear 
The impulse of an altered wind, 
Though prosperous; and my heart grew 

full. 



146 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



'Mid its new joy, of a new carej 

For his cheek became, not pale, but fair, 

As rose-o'ershadowed lilies are; 820 

And soon his deep and sunny hair. 

In this alone less beautiful. 

Like grass in tombs grew wild and rare. 

The blood in his translucent veins 

Beat, not like animal life, but love 

Seemed now its sullen springs to move. 

When life had failed, and all its pains; 

And sudden sleep would seize him oft 

Like death, so calm, — but that a tear. 

His pointed eye-lashes between, 830 

Would gather in the light serene 

Of smiles whose lustre bright and soft 

Beneath lay undulating there. 

His breath was like inconstant flame 

As eagerly it went and came; 

And I hung o'er him in his sleep, 

Till, like an image in the lake 

Which rains disturb, my tears would break 

The shadow of that slumber deep. 

Then he would bid me not to weep, 840 

And say, with flattery false yet sweet. 

That death and he could never meet, 

If I would never part with him. 

And so we loved, and did unite 

All that in us was yet divided; 

For when he said, that many a rite, 

By men to bind but once provided, 

Could not be shared by him and me. 

Or they would kill him in their glee, 

I shuddered, and then laughing said — 

* We will have rites our faith to bind, 851 

But our church shall be the starry night. 

Our altar the grassy earth outspread, 

And our priest the muttering wind.' 

'T was sunset as I spoke. One star 

Had scarce burst forth, when from afar 

The ministers of misrule sent 

Seized upon Lionel, and bore 

His chained limbs to a dreary tower. 

In the midst of a city vast and wide. 860 

For he, they said, from his mind had 

bent 
Against their gods keen blasphemy, 
For which, though his soul must roasted 

be 
In hell's red lakes immortally, 
Yet even on earth must he abide 
The vengeance of their slaves: a trial, 
I think, men call it. What avail 
Are prayers and tears, which chase de- 
nial 



From the fierce savage nursed in hate ? 
What the knit soul that pleading and 

pale 870 

Makes wan the quivering cheek which 

late 
It painted with its own delight ? 
We were divided. As I could, 
I stilled the tingling of my blood, 
And followed him in their despite, 
As a widow follows, pale and wild, 
The murderers and corse of her only child; 
And when we came to the prison door. 
And I prayed to share his dungeon floor 
With prayers which rarely have been 

spurned, 880 

And when men drove me forth, and I 
Stared with blank frenzy on the sky, — 
A farewell look of love he turned, 
Half calming me; then gazed awhile. 
As if through that black and massy pile. 
And through the crowd around him there, 
And through the dense and murky air, 
And the thronged streets, he did espy 
What poets know and prophesy ; 
And said, with voice that made them 

shiver 890 

And clung like music in my brain. 
And which the mute walls spoke again 
Prolonging it with deepened strain — 
' Fear not the tyrants shall rule forever, 
Or the priests of the bloody faith; 
They stand on the brink of that mighty 

river, 
Whose waves they have tainted with death; 
It is fed from the depths of a thousand 

dells. 
Around them it foams, and rages, and 

swells, 
And their swords and their sceptres I float- 
ing see, 900 
Like wrecks, in the surge of eternity.' 

I dwelt beside the prison gate; 

And the strange crowd that out and in 

Passed, some, no doubt, with mine own 

fate, 
Might have fretted me with its ceaseless 

din, 
But the fever of care was louder within. 
Soon but too late, in penitence 
Or fear, his foes released him thence. 
I saw his thin and languid form. 
As leaning on the jailor's arm, 910 

Whose hardened eyes grew moist the while 
To meet his mute and faded smile 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



147 



And hear his words of kind farewell, 
He tottered forth from his damp cell. 
Many had never wept before, 
From whom fast tears then gushed and 

fell; 
Many will relent no more. 
Who sobbed like infants then; ay, all 
Who thronged the prison's stony hall. 
The rulers or the slaves of law, 920 

Felt with a new surprise and awe 
That they were human, till strong shame 
Made them again become the same. 
The prison bloodhounds, huge and grim. 
From human looks the infection caught, 
And fondly crouched and fawned on him; 
And men have heard the prisoners say. 
Who in their rotting dungeons lay, 
That from that hour, throughout one 

day. 
The fierce despair and hate which kept 930 
Their trampled bosoms almost slept. 
Where, like twin vultures, they hung feed- 
ing 
On each heart's wound, wide torn and 

bleeding, — 
Because their jailors' rule, they thought. 
Grew merciful, like a parent's sway. 

I know not how, but we were free; 

And Lionel sate alone with me, 

As the carriage drove through the streets 

apace ; 
And we looked upon each other's face; 
And the blood in our fingers intertwined 940 
Ran like the thoughts of a single mind. 
As the swift emotions went and came 
Through the veins of each united frame. 
So through the long, long streets we passed 
Of the million-peopled City vast; 
Which is that desert, where each one 
Seeks his mate yet is alone. 
Beloved and sought and mourned of none; 
Until the clear blue sky was seen. 
And the grassy meadows bright and 

green. 950 

And then I sunk in his embrace 
Enclosing there a mighty space 
Of love; and so we travelled on 
By woods, and fields of yellow flowers, 
And towns, and villages, and towers, 
Day after day of happy hours. 
It was the azure time of June, 
When the skies are deep in the stainless 

noon, 
And the warm and fitful breezes shake 



The fresh green leaves of the hedge-row 
briar ; 960 

And there were odors then to make 
The very breath we did respire 
A liquid element, whereon 
Our spirits, like delighted things 
That walk the air on subtle wings, 
Floated and mingled far away 
'Mid the warm winds of the sunny day. 
And when the evening star came forth 
Above the curve of the new bent moon, 
And light and sound ebbed from the 
earth, 970 

Like the tide of the full and the weary 

sea 
To the depths of its own tranquillity. 
Our natures to its own repose 
Did the earth's breathless sleep attune; 
Like flowers, which on each other close 
Their languid leaves when daylight 's gone, 
We lay, till new emotions came. 
Which seemed to make each mortal frame 
One soul of interwoven flame, 
A life in life, a second birth 980 

In worlds diviner far than earth; — 
Which, like two strains of harmony 
That mingle in the silent sky. 
Then slowly disunite, passed by 
And left the tenderness of tears, 
A soft oblivion of all fears, 
A sweet sleep : — so we travelled on 
Till we came to the home of Lionel, 
Among the mountains wild and lone, 
Beside the hoary western sea, 990 

Which near the verge of the echoing shore 
The massy forest shadowed o'er. 

The ancient steward with hair all hoar, 
As we alighted, wept to see 
His master changed so fearfully; 
And the old man's sobs did waken me 
From my dream of unremaining gladness; 
The truth flashed o'er me like quick mad- 
ness 
When I looked, and saw that there was 

death 
On Lionel. Yet day by day 1000 

He lived, till fear grew hope and faith. 
And in my soul I dared to say. 
Nothing so bright can pass away; 
Death is dark, and foul, and dull. 
But he is — oh, how beautiful ! 
Yet day by day he grew more weak, 
And his sweet voice, when he might 
speak, 



148 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



Which ne'er was loud, became more low; 
And the light which flashed through his 

waxen cheek 
Grew faint, as the rose-like hues which 

flow loio 

From sunset o'er the Alpine snow; 
And death seemed not like death in him. 
For the spirit of life o'er every limb 
Lingered, a mist of sense and thought. 
When the summer wind faint odors 

brought 
From mountain flowers, even as it passed, 
His cheek would change, as the noonday 

sea 
Which the dying breeze sweeps fitfully. 
If but a cloud the sky o'ercast, 10 19 

You might see his color come and go, 
And the softest strain of music made 
Sweet smiles, yet sad, arise and fade 
Amid the dew of his tender eyes; 
And the breath, with intermitting flow, 
Made his pale lips quiver and part. 
You might hear the beatings of his heart. 
Quick but not strong ; and with my 

tresses 
When oft he playfully would bind 
In the bowers of mossy lonelinesses 
His neck, and win me so to mingle 1030 

In the sweet depth of woven caresses. 
And our faint limbs were intertwined, — 
Alas ! the unquiet life did tingle 
From mine own heart through every 

vein. 
Like a captive in dreams of liberty, 
Who beats the walls of his stony cell. 
But his, it seemed already free. 
Like the shadow of fire surrounding me ! 
On my faint eyes and limbs did dwell 
That spirit as it passed, till soon — 1040 
As a frail cloud wandering o'er the moon. 
Beneath its light invisible. 
Is seen when it folds its gray wings 

again 
To alight on midnight's dusky plain — 
I lived and saw, and the gathering soul 
Passed from beneath that strong control. 
And I fell on a life which was sick with 

fear 
Of all the woe that now I bear. 

Amid a bloomless myrtle wood, 

On a green and sea-girt promontory 1050 

Not far from where we dwelt, there 

stood. 
In record of a sweet sad story, 



An altar and a temple bright 

Circled by steps, and o'er the gate 

Was sculptured, ' To Fidelity; ' 

And in the shrine an image sate 

All veiled; but there was seen the light 

Of smiles which faintly could express 

A mingled pain and tenderness 

Through that ethereal drapery. 1060 

The left hand held the head, the right — 

Beyond the veil, beneath the skin. 

You might see the nerves quivering 

within — 
Was forcing the point of a barbed dart 
Into its side-convulsing heart. 
An unskilled hand, yet one informed 
With genius, had the marble warmed 
With that pathetic life. This tale 
It told: A dog had from the sea. 
When the tide was raging fearfully, 1070 
Dragged Lionel's mother, weak and pale, 
Then died beside her on the sand. 
And she that temple thence had planned; 
But it was Lionel's own hand 
Had wrought the image. Each new moon 
That lady did, in this lone fane, 
The rites of a religion sweet 
Whose god was in her heart and brain. 
The seasons' loveliest flowers were strewn 
On the marble floor beneath her feet, 1080 
And she brought crowns of sea -buds 

white 
Whose odor is so sweet and faint. 
And weeds, like branching chrysolite, 
Woven in devices fine and quaint; 
And tears from her brown eyes did stain 
The altar; need but look upon 
That dying statue, fair and wan, 
If tears should cease, to weep again; 
And rare Arabian odors came. 
Through the myrtle copses, steaming 

thence 1090 

From the hissing frankincense, 
Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam. 
Hung in dense flocks beneath the dome — 
That ivory dome, whose azure night 
With golden stars, like heaven, was bright 
O'er the split cedar's pointed flame; 
And the lady's harp would kindle there 
The melody of an old air. 
Softer than sleep; the villagers 
Mixed their religion up with hers, iio« 

And, as they listened round, shed tears. 

One eve he led me to this fane. 
Daylight on its last purple cloud 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



149 



Was lingering gray, and soon her strain 

The nightingale began; now loud, 

Climbing in circles the windless sky, 

Now dying music; suddenly 

'Tis scattered in a thousand notes; 

And now to the hushed ear it floats 

Like field-smells known in infancy, mo 

Then, failing, soothes the air again. 

We sate within that temple lone. 

Pavilioned round with Parian stone; 

His mother's harp stood near, and oft 

I had awakened music soft 

Amid its wires; the nightingale 

Was pausing in her heaven-taught tale. 

' Now drain the cup,' said Lionel, 

' Which the poet-bird has crowned so 

well 
With the wine of her bright and liquid 

song ! II20 

Heard'st thou not sweet words among 
That heaven-resounding minstrelsy ? 
Heard'st thou not that those who die 
Awake in a world of ecstasy ? 
That love, when limbs are interwoven. 
And sleep, when the night of life is cl»ven, 
And thought, to the world's dim bound- 
aries clinging. 
And music, when one beloved is singing, 
Is death ? Let us drain right joyously 
The cup which the sweet bird fills for 

me.' 1130 

He paused, and to my lips he bent 
His own; like spirit his words went 
Through all my limbs with the speed of 

fire; 
And his keen eyes, glittering through 

mine. 
Filled me with the flame divine 
Which in their orbs was burning far. 
Like the light of an unmeasured star 
In the sky of midnight dark and deep; 
Yes, 't was his soul that did inspire 1139 
Sounds which my skill could ne'er awaken ; 
And first, I felt my fingers sweep 
The harp, and a long quivering cry 
Burst from my lips in symphony; 
The dusk and solid air was shaken. 
As swift and swifter the notes came 
From my touch, that wandered like quick 

flame. 
And from my bosom, laboring 
With some "uutterable thing. 
The awful sound of my own voice made 
My faint lips tremble; in some mood 1150 
Of wordless thought Lionel stood 



So pale, that even beside his cheek 
The snowy column from its shade 
Caught whiteness; yet his countenance, 
Raised upward, burned with radiance 
Of spirit-piercing joy whose light. 
Like the moon struggling through the night 
Of whirlwind-rifted clouds, did break 
With beams that might not be confined. 
I paused, but soon his gestures kindled 
New power, as by the moving wind ii6i 
The waves are lifted; and my song 
To low soft notes now changed and dwin- 
dled, 
And, from the twinkling wires among. 
My languid fingers drew and flung 
Circles of life-dissolving sound. 
Yet faint; in aery rings they bound 
My Lionel, who, as every strain 
Grew fainter but more sweet, his mien 
Sunk with the sound relaxedly; 117c 

And slowly now he turned to me, 
As slowly faded from his face 
That awful joy; with look serene 
He was soon drawn to my embrace. 
And my wild song then died away 
In murmurs; words I dare not say 
We mixed, and on his lips mine fed 
Till they methought felt still and cold. 
' What is it with thee, love ? ' I said; 
No word, no look, no motion ! yes, ii8« 

There was a change, but spare to guess, 
Nor let that moment's hope be told. 
I looked, — and knew that he was dead; 
And fell, as the eagle on the plain 
Falls when life deserts her brain. 
And the mortal lightning is veiled again. 

Oh, that I were now dead ! but such — 
Did they not, love, demand too much, 
Those dying murmurs ? — he forbade. 
Oh, that I once again were mad ! ago 

And yet, dear Rosalind, not so. 
For I would live to share thy woe. 
Sweet boy ! did I forget thee too ? 
Alas, we know not what we do 
When we speak words. 

No memory more 
Is in my mind of that sea-shore. 
Madness came on me, and a troop 
Of misty shapes did seem to sit 
Beside me, on a vessel's poop, 1199 

And the clear north wind was driving it. 
Then I heard strange tongues, and saw 
strange flowers. 



ISO 



ROSALIND AND HELEN 



And the stars metbought grew unlike ours, 

And the azure sky and the stormless sea 

Made me believe that I had died 

And waked in a world which was to me 

Drear hell, though heaven to all beside. 

Then a dead sleep fell on m}^ mind, 

Whilst animal life many long years 

Had rescued from a chasm of tears; 

And, when 1 woke, I wept to find 12 lo 

That the same lady, bright and wise, 

With silver locks and quick brown eyes, 

The mother of my Lionel, 

Had tended me in my distress. 

And died some months before. Nor less 

Wonder, but far more peace and joy. 

Brought in that hour my lovely boy. 

For through that trance my soul had well 

The impress of thy being kept; 

And if I waked or if I slept, 1220 

No doubt, though memory faithless be, 

Thy image ever dwelt on me; 

And thus, O Lionel, like thee 

Is our sweet child. 'Tis sure most strange 

I knew not of so great a change 

As that which gave him birth, who now 

Is all the solace of my woe. 

That Lionel great wealth had left 
By will to me, and that of all 
The ready lies of law bereft 1230 

My child and me, — might well befall. 
But let me think not of the scorn 
Which from the meanest I have borne. 
When, for my child's beloved sake, 
I mixed with slaves, to vindicate 
The very laws themselves do make; 
Let me not say scorn is my fate. 
Lest I be proud, suffering the same 
With those who live in deathless fame. 

She ceased. — ' Lo, where red morning 

through the woods 1240 

Is burning o'er the dew ! ' said Rosalind. 
And with these words they rose, and 

towards the flood 
Of the blue lake, beneath the leaves, now 

wind 
With equal steps and fingers intertwined. 
Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the 

shore 
Is shadowed with steep rocks, and cypresses 
Cleave with their dark green cones the 

silent skies 
And with their shadows the clear depths 

below. 



And where a little terrace from its bowers 
Of blooming myrtle and faint lemon 

flowers 125c 

Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance o'er 
The liquid marble of the windless lake; 
And where the aged forest's limbs look 

hoar 
Under the leaves which their green gar- 
ments make, 
They come. 'T is Helen's home, and clean 

and white. 
Like one which tyrants spare on our own 

land 
In some such solitude; its casements bright 
Shone through their vine-leaves in the 

morning sun. 
And even within 't was scarce like Italy. 
And when she saw how all things there 

were planned 1260 

As in an English home, dim memory 
Disturbed poor Rosalind; she stood as one 
Whose mind is where his body cannot 

be. 
Till Helen led her where her child yet 

slept. 
And said, * Observe, that brow was Lionel's, 
Those lips were his, and so he ever kept 
One arm in sleep, pillowing his head with 

it. 
You cannot see his eyes — they are two 

wells 
Of liquid love. Let us not wake him yet.' 
But Rosalind could bear no more, and 

wept 127a 

A shower of burning tears which fell upon 
His face, and so his opening lashes shone 
With tears unlike his own, as he did leap 
In sudden wonder from his innocent sleep. 

So Rosalind and Helen lived together 
Thenceforth — changed in all else, yet 

friends again, 
Such as they were, when o'er the mountain 

heather 
They wandered in their youth through sun 

and rain. 
And after many years, for human things 
Change even like the ocean and the wind, 
Her daughter was restored to Rosalind, 1281 
And in their circle thence some visitings 
Of joy 'mid their new calm would inter- 
vene. 
A lovely child she was, of looks serene, 
And motions which o'er things indifferent 
shed 



JULIAN AND MADDALO 



151 



The grace and gentleness from whence 

they came. 
And Helen's boy grew with her, and they 

fed 
From the same flowers of thought, until 

each mind 
Like springs which mingle in one flood 

became; 1289 

And in their union soon their parents saw 
The shadow of the peace denied to them. 
And Rosalind — for when the living stem 
Is cankered in its heart, the tree must 

fall — 
Died ere her time; and with deep grief and 

awe 
The pale survivors followed her remains 
Beyond the region of dissolving rains, 
Up the cold mountain she was wont to 

call 
Her tomb; and on Chiavenna's precipice 
They raised a pyramid of lasting ice. 
Whose polished sides, ere day had yet 

begun, 1300 

Caught the first glow of the unrisen sun. 
The last, when it had sunk; and through 

the night 



The charioteers of Arctos wheeled round 
Its glittering point, as seen from Helen's 

home, 
Whose sad inhabitants each year would 

come. 
With willing steps climbing that rugged 

height, 
And hang long locks of hair, and garlands 

bound 
With amaranth flowers, which, in the 

clime's despite. 
Filled the frore air with unaccustomed 

light; 
Such flowers as in the wintry memory 

bloom 13 ic 

Of one friend left adorned that frozen 

tomb. 

Helen, whose spirit was of softer mould, 
Whose sufferings too were less, death slow- 

lier led 
Into the peace of his dominion cold. 
She died among her kindred, being old. 
And know, that if love die not in the dead 
As in the living, none of moi-tal kind 
Are blessed as now Helen and Rosalind. 



JULIAN AND MADDALO 
A CONVERSATION 



The meadows with fresh streams, the bees with thyme, 
The goats with the green leaves of budding Spring, 
Are saturated not — nor Love with tears. 

Virgil's Gallus. 



Jxdian and Maddalo is the fruit of Shelley's 
first visit to Venice in 1818, where he found 
Byron, and the poem is a reflection of their 
companionship, Julian standing for Shelley, 
Maddalo for Byron, and the child being- 
Byron's daug-hter, Allegra. It was written in 
the fall, at Este, and received its last revision 
in May, 1819, but was not published, notwith- 
standing- some efforts of Shelley to bring it 
out, until after his death, when it was included 
in the Posthumous Poems, 1824. Shelley had 
it in mind to write three other similar poems, 
laying- the scenes at Rome, Florence and 
Naples, but he did not carry out the plan. 
He once refers to the tale, or ' conversation ' 
as among ' his saddest verses ; ' but his impor- 
tant comment on it is contained in a letter to 
Hunt, August 15, 1819 : 

' I send you a little poem to give to Oilier 
for publication, but without my name. Peacock 
will correct the proofs. I wrote it with the 



idea of offering it to the Examiner, but I find 
it is too long. It was composed last year at 
Este ; two of the characters you will recog- 
nize ; and the third is also in some degree a 
painting- from nature, but, with respect to time 
and place, ideal. You will find the little piece, 
I think, in some degree consistent with your 
own ideas of tlie manner in which poetry oug-ht 
to be written. I have employed a certain 
familiar style of language to express the actual 
way in which people talk with each other, 
whom education and a certain refinement of 
sentiment have placed above the use of vulgar 
idioms. I use the word vulgar in its most ex- 
tensive sense. The vulgarity of rank and 
fashion is as gross in its way as that of pov- 
erty, and its cant terms equally expressive of 
base conceptions, and, therefore, equally unfit 
for poetry. Not that the familiar style is to 
be admitted in the treatment of a subject 
wholly ideal, or in that part of any subjec*; 



152 



JULIAN AND MADDALO 



which relates to common life, where the pas- 
sion, exceeding- a certain limit, touches the 
boundaries of that which is ideal. Strong- 
passion expresses itself in metaphor, borrowed 
from objects alike remote or near, and casts 
over all the shadow of its own greatness. But 
what am I about ? If my grandmother sucks 
eggs, was it I who taught her ? 

' If you would really correct the proof, I need 
not trouble Peacock, who, I suppose, has 
enough. Can you take it as a compliment 
that I prefer to trouble you ? 

' I do not particularly wish this poem to be 
known as mine ; but, at all events, I would not 
put my name to it. I leave you to judge 
whether it is best to throw it into the fire, or 
to publish it. So much for self — self, that 
burr that will stick to one.' 



PREFACE 

Count Maddalo is a Venetian nobleman of 
ancient family and of great fortune, who, 
without mixing much in the society of his 
countrymen, resides chiefly at his magnificent 
palace in that city. He is a person of the most 
consummate genius, and capable, if he would 
direct his energies to such an end, of becoming 
the redeemer of his degraded country. But it 
is his weakness to be proud. He derives, from 
a comparison of his own extraordinary mind 
with the dwarfish intellects that surround him, 
an intense apprehension of the nothingness of 
human life. His passions and his powers are 
incomparably greater than those of other men ; 
and, instead of the latter having been employed 
in curbing the former, they have mutually lent 
each other strength. His ambition preys upon 
itself, for want of objects which it can con- 

I RODE one evening with Count Maddalo 
Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow 
Of Adria towards Venice. A bare strand 
Of hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting 

sand, 
Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds, 
Such as from earth's embrace the salt ooze 

breeds, 
Is this; an uninhabited sea-side. 
Which the lone fisher, when his nets are 

dried. 
Abandons; and no other object breaks 
The waste but one dwarf tree and some few 

stakes lo 

Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes 
A narrow space of level sand thereon, 
Where 't was our wont to ride whil-s day 

went down. 



sider worthy of exertion. I say that Mad- 
dalo is proud, because I can find no other word 
to express the concentred and impatient feel- 
ings which consume him ; but it is on his own 
hopes and affections only that he seems to 
trample, for in social life no human being can 
be more gentle, patient and unassuming than 
Maddalo. He is cheerful, frank and witty. 
His more serious conversation is a sort of in- 
toxication ; men are held by it as by a spell. 
He has travelled much ; and there is an inex- 
pressible charm in his relation of his adventures 
in different countries. 

Julian is an Englishman of good family, 
passionately attached to those philosophical 
notions which assert the power of man over 
his own mind, and the immense improvements 
of which, by the extinction of certain moral 
superstitions, human society may be yet sus- 
ceptible. Without concealing the evil in the 
world he is forever speculating how good may 
be made superior. He is a complete infidel 
and a scoffer at all things reputed holy ; and 
Maddalo takes a wicked pleasure in drawing 
out his taunts against religion. What Mad- 
dalo thinks on these matters is not exactly 
known. Julian, in spite of his heterodox opin- 
ions, is conjectured by his friends to possess 
some good qualities. How far this is possible 
the pious reader will determine. Julian is 
rather serious. 

Of the Maniac I can give no information. 
He seems, by his own account, to have been 
disappointed in love. He was evidently a very 
cultivated and amiable person when in his right 
senses. His story, told at length, might be like 
many other stories of the same kind. The un- 
connected exclamations of his agony will per- 
haps be found a sufficient comment for the text 
of every heart. 

This ride was my delight. I love all waste 
And solitary places; where we taste 
The pleasure of believing what we see 
Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be; 
And such was this wide ocean, and this shore 
More barren than its billows; and yet more 
Than all, with a remembered friend I 

love 20 

To ride as then I rode; — for the winds 

drove 
The living spray along the sunny air 
Into our faces ; the blue heavens were bare, 
Stripped to their depths by the awakening 

north; 
And from the waves sound like delight 

broke forth 
Harmonizing with solitude, and sent 
Into our hearts aerial merriment. 



JULIAN AND MADDALO 



iS3 



So, as we rode, we talked; and the swift 

thought, 
Winging itself with laughter, lingered not. 
But flew from brain to brain, — such glee 
was ours, 30 

Charged with light memories of remem- 
bered hours, 
None slow enough for sadness; till we came 
Homeward, which always makes the spirit 

tame. 
This day had been cheerful but cold, and 

now 
The sun was sinking, and the wind also. 
Our talk grew -somewhat serious, as may be 
Talk interrupted with such raillery 
As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn 
The thoughts it would extinguish. 'T was 

forlorn. 
Yet pleasing; such as once, so poets tell, 40 
The devils held within the dales of Hell, 
Concerning God, freewill and destiny; 
Of all that earth has been, or yet may be, 
All that vain men imagine or believe. 
Or hope can paint, or suffering may achieve, 
We descanted; and I (for ever still 
Is it not wise to make the best of ill ?) 
Argued against despondency, but pride 
Made my companion take the darker side. 
The sense that he was greater than his 
kind so 

Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit blind 
By gazing on its own exceeding light. 
Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should 

alight, 
Over the horizon of the mountains. Oh, 
How beautiful is sunset, when the glow 
Of Heaven descends upon a land like thee, 
Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy ! 
Thy mountains, seas and vineyards and the 

towers 
Of cities they encircle ! — It was ours 
To stand on thee, beholding it; and then, 60 
Just where we had dismounted, the Count's 

men 
Were waiting for us with the gondola. 
As those who pause on some delightful way 
Though bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we 

stood 
Looking upon the evening, and the flood. 
Which lay between the city and the shore. 
Paved with the image of the sky. The 

hoar 
And aery Alps towards the north appeared, 
Through mist, an heaven-sustaining bul- 
wark reared 



Between the east and west; and half the 

sky 70 

Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonry, 
Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew 
Down the steep west into a wondrous hue 
Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent 
Where the swift sun yet paused in his 

descent 
Among the many- folded hills. They were 
Those famous Euganean hills, which bear, 
As seen from Lido through the harbor piles, 
The likeness of a clump of peaked isles; 79 
And then, as if the earth and sea had been 
Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seen 
Those mountains towering as from waves 

of flame 
Around the vaporous sun, from which there 

came 
The inmost purple spirit of light, and made 
Their very peaks transparent. ' Ere it 

fade,' 
Said my companion, * I will show you soon 
A better station.' So, o'er the lagune 
We glided; and from that funereal bark 
I leaned, and saw the city, and could mark 
How from their many isles, in evening's 

gleam, 90 

Its temples and its palaces did seem 
Like fabrics of enchantment piled to 

Heaven. 
I was about to speak, when — * We are 

even 
Now at the point I meant,' said Maddalo, 
And bade the gondolieri cease to row. 
' Look, Julian, on the west, and listen well 
If you hear not a deep and heavy bell.' 
I looked, and saw between us and the sun 
A building on an island, — such a one 
As age to age might add, for uses vile, 100 
A windowless, deformed and dreary pile; 
And on the top an open tower, where hung 
A bell, which in the radiance swayed and 

swung; 
We could just hear its hoarse and iron 

tongue; 
The broad sun sunk behind it, and it tolled 
In strong and black relief. * What we 

behold 
Shall be the madhouse and its belfry 

tower,' 
Said Maddalo; ' and ever at this hour 
Those who may cross the water hear that 

bell. 
Which calls the maniacs each one from his 

cell no 



154 



JULIAN AND MADDALO 



Ti) vespers.' — * As much skill as need to 

praj 
In thanks or hope for their dark lot have 

they 
To their stern Maker,' I replied. ' O ho ! 
You talk as in years past,' said Maddalo. 

* 'T is strange men change not. You were 

ever still 
Among Christ's flock a perilous infidel, 
A wolf for the meek lambs — if you can't 

swim, 
Beware of Providence.' I looked on him, 
But the gay smile had faded in his eye, — 

* And such,' he cried, * is our mortality; 120 
And this must be the emblem and the sign 
Of what should be eternal and divine ! 
And, like that black and dreary bell, the 

soul. 
Hung in a heaven-illumined tower, must 

toll 
Our thoughts and our desires to meet below 
Kound the rent heart and pray — as mad- 
men do 
For what ? they know not, till the night of 

death. 
As sunset that strange vision, severeth 128 
Our memory from itself, and us from all 
We sought, and yet were baffled.' I recall 
The sense of what he said, although I mar 
The force of his expressions. The broad 

star 
Of day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill. 
And the black bell became invisible, 
And the red tower looked gray, and all 

between, 
The churches, ships and palaces were seen 
Huddled in gloom; into the purple sea 
The orange hues of heaven sunk silently. 
We hardly spoke, and soon the gondola 
Conveyed me to my lodgings by the way. 
The following morn was rainy, cold, and 

dim. 
Ere Maddalo arose, I called on him, 
And whilst I waited, with his child I played. 
A lovelier toy sweet Nature never made; 
A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle being, 
Graceful without design, and unforeseeing, 
With eyes — oh, speak not of her eyes ! — 

which seem 
Twin mirrors of Italian heaven, yet gleam 
With such deep meaning as we never see 
But in the human countenance. With me 
She was a special favorite ; I had nursed 
Her fine and feeble limbs when she came 

first 152 



HI 



To this bleak world; and she yet seemed 

to know 
On second sight her ancient playfellow. 
Less changed than she was by six months or 

so; 
For, after her first shyness was worn out. 
We sate there, rolling billiard balls about. 
When the Count entered. Salutations 

past — 
' The words you spoke last night might well 

have cast 
A darkness on my spirit. If man be 160 
The passive thing you say, I should not see 
Much harm in the religions and old saws, 
(Though I may never own such leaden 

laws) 
Which break a teachless nature to the 

yoke. 
Mine is another faith.' Thus much I spoke, 
And noting he replied not, added: * See 
This lovely child, blithe, innocent and free; 
She spends a happy time with little care. 
While we to such sick thoughts subjected 

are 169 

As came on you last night. It is our will 
That thus enchains us to permitted ill. 
We might be otherwise; we might be all 
We dream of happy, high, majestical. 
Where is the love, beauty and truth we 

seek. 
But in our mind ? and if we were not weak, 
Should we be less in deed than in desire ? ' 
* Ay, if we were not weak — and we aspire 
How vainly to be strong ! ' said Maddalo; 
' You talk Utopia.' ' It remains to know,' 
I then rejoined, 'and those who try may 

find 180 

How strong the chains are which our spirit 

bind ; 
Brittle perchance as straw. We are assured 
Much may be conquered, much may be 

endured 
Of what degrades and crushes us. We 

know 
That we have power over ourselves to do 
And suffer — what, we know not till wq try; 
But something nobler than to live and die. 
So taught those kings of old philosophy. 
Who reigned before religion made men 

blind ; 
And those who suffer with their suffering 

kind 190 

Yet feel this faith religion.' * My dear 

friend,' 
Said Maddalo, * my judgment will not bend 



JULIAN AND MADDALO 



15s 



To your opinion, though I think you might 
Make such a system refutation-tiglit 
As far as words go. I knew one like you, 
Who to this city came some months ago. 
With whom I argued in this sort, and he 
[s now gone mad, — and so he answered 

me, — 
Poor fellow ! but if you would like to go. 
We '11 visit him, and his wild talk will 

show 200 

How vain are such aspiring theories.' 
* I hope to prove the induction otherwise, 
And that a want of that true theory'- still, 
Which seeks " a soul of goodness " in things 

ill. 
Or in himself or others, has thus bowed 
His being. There are some by nature 

proud, 
Who patient in all else demand but this — 
To love and be beloved with gentleness; 
And, being scorned, what wonder if they die 
Some living death? this is not destiny 210 
But man's own wilful ill.' 

As thus I spoke. 
Servants announced the gondola, and we 
Through the fast-falling rain and high- 
wrought sea 
Sailed to the island where the madhouse 

stands. 
We disembarked. The clap of tortured 

hands. 
Fierce yells and bowlings and lamentings 

keen. 
And laughter where complaint had merrier 

been. 
Moans, shrieks, and curses, and blasphem- 
ing prayers, 218 
Accosted us. We climbed the oozy stairs 
Into an old courtyard. I heard on high. 
Then, fragments of most touching melody. 
But looking up saw not the singer there. 
Through the black bars in the tempestuous 

air 
I saw, like weeds on a wrecked palace 

growing. 
Long tangled locks flung wildly forth, and 

flowing. 
Of those who on a sudden were beguiled 
Into strange silence, and looked forth and 

smiled 
Hearing sweet sounds. Then I: 'Methinks 

there were 
A cure of these with patience and kind 

CATQf 239 



If music can thus move. But what is he, 
Whom we seek here ? ' * Of his sad history 
I know but this,' said Maddalo: ' he came 
To Venice a dejected man, and fame 
Said he was wealthy, or he had been so. 
Some thought the loss of fortune wrought 

him woe; 
But he was ever talking in such sort 
As you do — far more sadly; he seemed 

hurt. 
Even as a man with his peculiar wrong. 
To hear but of the oppression of the strong. 
Or those absurd deceits (I think with you 
In some respects, you know) which carry 

through 241 

The excellent impostors of this earth 
When they outface detection. He had 

worth. 
Poor fellow ! but a humorist in his way.' 
' Alas, what drove him mad ? ' 'I cannot 

say; 
A lady came with him from France, and 

when 
She left him and returned, he wandered 

then 
About yon lonely isles of desert sand 
Till he grew wild. He had no cash or land 
Remaining; the police had brought him 

here ; 250 

Some fancy took him and he would not bear 
Removal; so I fitted up for him 
Those rooms beside the sea, to please his 

whim. 
And sent him busts and books and urns for 

flowers. 
Which had adorned his life in happier 

hours. 
And instruments of music. You may guess 
A stranger could do little more or less 
For one so gentle and mifortunate; 
And those are his sweet strains which 

charm the weight 
From madmen's chains, and make this Hell 

appear 260 

A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.' 
'Nay, this was kind of you; he had no 

claim, 
As the world says.' ' None — but the very 

same 
Which I on all mankind, were I as he 
Fallen to such deep reverse. His melody 
Is interrupted; now we hear the din 
Of madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin 
Let us now visit him ; after this strain 
He ever communes with himself again, 



156 



JULIAN AND MADDALO 



And sees nor hears not any.' Having said 
These words, we called the keeper, and he 

led 371 

To an apartment opening on the sea. 
There the poor wretch was sitting mourn- 

fully 
Near a piano, his pale fingers twined 
One with the other, and the ooze and wind 
Rushed through an open casement, and did 

sway 
His hair, and starred it with the brackish 

spray; 
His head was leaning on a music-book. 
And he was muttering, and his lean limbs 

shook; 279 

His lips were pressed against a folded leaf. 
In hue too beautiful for health, and grief 
Smiled in their motions as they lay apart. 
As one who wrought from his own fervid 

heart 
The eloquence of passion, soon he raised 
His sad meek face, and eyes lustrous and 

glazed. 
And spoke — sometimes as one who wrote, 

and thought 
His words might move some heart that 

heeded not. 
If sent to distant lands; and then as one 
Reproaching deeds never to be undone 
With wondering self-compassion ; then his 

speech 290 

Was lost in grief, and then his words came 

each 
Unmodulated, cold, expressionless, 
But that from one jarred accent you might 

guess 
li was despair made them so uniform; 
And all the while the loud and gusty storm 
Hissed through the window, and we stood 

behind 
Stealing his accents from the envious wind 
Unseen. I yet remember what he said 
Distinctly ; such impression his words made. 

* Month after month,' he cried, ' to bear 
this load, 300 

And, as a jade urged by the whip and goad. 
To drag life on — which like a heavy chain 
Lengthens behind with many a link of 

pain ! — 
And not to speak my grief — oh, not to dare 
To give a human voice to my despair, 
But live, and move, and, wretched thing ! 

smile on 
As if I never went aside to groan; 



And wear this mask of falsehood even to 
those 

Who are most dear — not for my own re- 
pose — 

Alas, no scorn or pain or hate could be 310 

So heavy as that falsehood is to me ! 

But that I cannot bear more altered faces 

Than needs must be, more changed and 
cold embraces, 

More misery, disappointment and mistrust 

To own me for their father. Would the 
dust 

Were covered in upon my body now ! 

That the life ceased to toil within my brow ! 

And then these thoughts would at the least 
be fled; 

Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead. 

' What Power delights to torture us ? I 
know 320 

That to myself I do not wholly owe 
What now I suffer, though in part I may. 
Alas ! none strewed sweet flowers upon the 

way 
Where, wandering heedlessly, I met pale 

Pain, 
My shadow, which will leave me not 

again. 
If I have erred, there was no joy in error, 
But pain and insult and imrest and terror; 
I have not, as some do, bought penitence 
With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet of- 
fence ; 
For then — if love and tenderness and 
truth 330 

Had overlived hope's momentary youth. 
My creed should have redeemed me from 

repenting; 
But loathed scorn and outrage unrelenting 
Met love excited by far other seeming 
Until the end was gained; as one from 

dreaming 
Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my 

state 
Such as it is — 

* O Thou my spirit's mate ! 
Who, for thou art compassionate and wise, 
Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes 
If this sad writing thou shouldst ever 

see — 340 

My secret groans must be unheard by thee; 
Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood to 

know 
Thy lost friend's incommunicable woe- 



JULIAN AND MADDALO 



157 



»Ye few by whom my nature has been 

weighed 
In friendship, let me not that name de- 
grade 
By placing on your hearts the secret load 
Which crushes mine to dust. There is one 

road 
To peace, and that is truth, which follow 

ye! 
Love sometimes leads astray to misery. 
Yet think not, though subdued — and I may 

well 350 

Say that I am subdued — that the full 

hell 
Within me would infect the untainted 

breast 
Of sacred Nature with its own unrest; 
As some perverted beings think to find 
In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind 
Which scorn or hate have wounded — oh, 

how vain ! 
The dagger heals not, but may rend again ! 
Believe that I am ever still the same 
In creed as in resolve; and what may tame 
My heart must leave the understanding 

free, 360 

Or all would sink in this keen agony; 
Nor dream that I will join the vulgar cry; 
Or with my silence sanction tyranny; 
Or seek a moment's shelter from my pain 
In any madness which the world calls gain. 
Ambition or revenge or thoughts as stern 
As those which make me what I am; or 

turn 
To avarice or misanthropy or lust. 
Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome 

dust! 
Till then the dungeon may demand its 

prey, 370 

And Poverty and Shame may meet and 

say. 
Halting beside me on the public way, 
" That love-devoted youth is ours; let 's sit 
Beside him; he may live some six months 

yet." 
Or the red scaffold, as our country bends. 
May ask some willing victim ; or ye, friends, 
May fall under some sorrow, which this 

heart 
Or hand may share or vanquish or avert; 
I am prepared — in truth, with no proud 

joy, 

To do or suffer aught, as when a boy 380 
I did devote to justice and to love 
My nature, worthless now ! — 



* I must remove 
A veil from my pent mind. 'Tis torn 
aside ! 

pallid as Death's dedicated bride, 
Thou mockery which art sitting by my 

side. 
Am I not wan like thee ? at the grave's 
call 

1 haste, invited to thy wedding-ball. 

To greet the ghastly paramour for whom 
Thou hast deserted me — and made the 

tomb 
Thy bridal bed — but I beside your feet 390 
Will lie and watch ye from my winding- 
sheet — 
Thus — wide-awake though dead — yet 

stay, oh, stay ! 
Go not so soon — I know not what I say — 
Hear but my reasons — I am mad, I fear. 
My fancy is o'erwrought — thou art not 

here; 
Pale art thou, 't is most true — but thou 

art gone. 
Thy work is finished — I am left alone. 

' Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this 

breast. 
Which like a serpent thou envenomest 
As in repayment of the warmth it lent ? 400 
Didst thou not seek me for thine own con- 
tent ? 
Did not thy love awaken mine ? I thought 
That thou wert she who said " You kiss me 

not 
Ever; I fear you do not love me now " — 
In truth I loved even to my overthrow 
Her who would fain forget these words; 

but they 
Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away. 

' You say that I am proud — that when I 

speak 
My lip is tortured with the wrongs which 

break 
The spirit it expresses. — Never one 4i<i 
Humbled himself before, as I have done ! 
Even the instinctive worm on which we 

tread 
Turns, though it wound not — then with 

prostrate head 
Sinks in the dust and writhes like me — 

and dies ? 
No: wears a living death of agonies ! 
As the slow shadows of the pointed grass 
Mark the eternal periods, his pangs pass. 



158 



JULIAN AND MADDALO 



Slow, ever-moving, making moments be 
As mine seem, — each an immortality ! 

* That you had never seen me — never 
heard 420 

My voice, and more than all had ne'er en- 
dured 

The deep pollution of my loathed em- 
brace — 

That your eyes ne'er had lied love in my 
face — 

That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out 

The nerves of manhood by their bleeding 
root 

With mine own quivering fingers, so that 
ne'er 

Our hearts had for a moment mingled there 

To disunite in horror — these were not 

With thee like some suppressed and hideous 
thought 

Which flits athwart our musings but can 
find 430 

No rest within a pure and gentle mind; 

Thou sealedst them with many a liare 
broad word, 

And sear'dst my memory o'er them, — for 
I heard 

And can forget not; — they were ministered 

One after one, those curses. Mix them up 

Like self-destroying poisons in one cup. 

And they will make one blessing, which 
thou ne'er 

Didst imprecate for on me, — death. 

' It were 
A cruel punishment for one most cruel. 
If such can love, to make that love the 

fuel 440 

Of the mind's hell — hate, scorn, remorse, 

despair; 
But me, whose heart a stranger's tear might 

wear 
As water-drops the sandy fountain-stone, 
Who loved and pitied all things, and could 

moan 
For woes which others hear not, and could 

see 
The absent with the glance of fantasy, 
^nd with the poor and trampled sit and 

weep. 
Following the captive to his dungeon deep; 
Me — who am as a nerve o'er which do 

creep 449 

The else unfelt oppressions of this earth. 
And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth, 



When all beside was cold: — that thou on me 
Shouldst rain these plagues of blistering 

agony ! 
Such curses are from lips once eloquent 
With love's too partial praise ! Let none 

relent 
Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name 
Henceforth, if an example for the same 
They seek: — for thou on me look'dst so, 

and so — 
And didst speak thus — and thus. I live 

to show 459 

How much men bear and die not ! 

' Thou wilt tell 
With the grimace of hate how horrible 
It was to meet my love when thine grew 

less; 
Thou wilt admire how I could e'er, address 
Such features to love's work. This taunt, 

though true, 
(For indeed Nature nor in form nor hue 
Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship) 
Shall not be thy defence; for since thy lip 
Met mine first, years long past, — since 

thine eye kindled 
With soft fire under mine, — I have not 

dwindled. 
Nor changed in mind or body, or in aught 
But as love changes what it loveth not 47- 
After long years and many trials. 

' How vain 
Are words ! I thought never to speak 

again. 
Not even in secret, not to mine own heart; 
But from my lips the unwilling accents 

start, 
And from my pen the words flow as I write. 
Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears ; my 

sight 
Is dim to see that charactered in vain 
On this unfeeling leaf, which burns the 

brain 
And eats into it, blotting all things fair 480 
And wise and good which time had written 

there. 

Those who inflict must suflPer, for they see 
The work of their own hearts, and this 

must be 
Our chastisement or recompense. — O 

child ! 
I would that thine were like to be more 

mild 



JULIAN AND MADDALO 



159 



For both our wretched sakes, — for thine 

the most 
Who feelest already all that thou hast lost 
Without the power to wish it thine again; 
And as slow years pass, a funereal train, 
Each with the ghost of some lost hope or 

friend 490 

Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend 
No thought on my dead memory ? 

* Alas, love ! 
Fear me not — against thee I would not 

move 
A finger in despite. Do I not live 
That thou mayst have less bitter cause to 

grieve ? 
I give thee tears for scorn, and love for 

hate; 
And that thy lot may be less desolate 
Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain 
From that sweet sleep which medicines all 

pain. 499 

Then, when thou speakest of me, never say 
" He could forgive not." Here I cast away 
All human passions, all revenge, all pride; 
I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hide 
Under these words, like embers, every 

spark 
Of that which has consumed me. Quick 

and dark 
The grave is yawning — as its roof shall 

cover 
My limbs with dust and worms under and 

over. 
So let Oblivion hide this grief — the air 
Closes upon my accents as despair 509 

Upon my heart — let death upon despair ! ' 

He ceased, and overcome leant back 

awhile ; 
Then rising, with a melancholy smile, 
Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept 
Al heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept, 
And muttered some familiar name, and we 
Wept without shame in his society. 
I think I never was impressed so much ; 
The man who were not must have lacked a 

touch 518 

Of human nature. — Then we lingered not, 
Although our argument was quite forgot; 
But, callhig the attendants, went to dine 
At Maddalo's; yet neither cheer nor wine 
Could give us spirits, for we talked of him 
And nothing else, till daylight made stars 

dim; 



And we agreed his was some dreadful ill 
Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable, 
By a dear friend; some deadly change in 

love 
Of one vowed deeply, which he dreamed 

not of; 
For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a 

blot 
Of falsehood on his mind which flourished 

not 530 

But in the light of all-beholding truth; 
And having stamped this canker on his 

youth 
She had abandoned him — and how much 

more 
Might be his woe, we guessed not; he had 

store 
Of friends and fortune once, as we could 

guess 
From his nice habits and his gentleness; 
These were now lost — it were a grief 

indeed 
If he had changed one unsustaining reed 
For all that such a man mig^ht else adorn. 
The colors of his mind seemed yet unworn; 
For the wild language of his grief was 

high — 541 

Such as in measure were called poetry. 
And I remember one remark which then 
Maddalo made. He said — ' Most wretched 

men 
Are cradled into poetry by wrong; 
They learn in suffering what they teach in 

song.' 

If I had been an unconnected man, 

I, from this moment, should have formed 

some plan 
Never to leave sweet Venice, — for to me 
It was delight to ride by the lone sea; 550 
And then the town is silent — one may 

write 
Or read in gondolas by day or night. 
Having the little brazen lamp alight, 
Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there. 
Pictures, and casts from all those statues 

fair 
Which were twin-born with poetry, and all 
We seek in towns, with little to recall 
Regrets for the green country. I might sit 
In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit 
And subtle talk would cheer the winter 
night 560 

And make me know myself, and the fire- 
light 



i6o 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



Would flash upon our faces, till the day 
Might dawn and make me wonder at my 

stay. 
But I had friends in London too. The 

chief 
Attraction here was that I sought relief 
From the deep tenderness that maniac 

wrought 
Within me — 't was perhaps an idle thought, 
But I imagined that if day by day 568 

I watched him, and but seldom went away, 
And studied all the beatings of his heart 
With zeal, as men study some stubborn art 
For their own good, and could by patience 

find 
An entrance to the caverns of his mind, 
I might reclaim him from this dark estate. 
In friendships I had been most fortunate, 
Yet never saw I one whom I would call 
More willingly my friend ; and this was all 
Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless 

good 
Oft come and go in crowds and solitude 
And leave no trace, — but what I now de- 
signed 580 
Made, for long years, impression on my 

mind. 
The following morning, urged by my 

affairs, 
I left bright Venice. 

After many years, 
And many changes, I returned; the name 
Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same; 
But Maddalo was travelling far away 
Among the mountains of Armenia. 
His dog was dead. His child had now be- 
come 588 
A woman; such as it has been my doom 
To meet with few, a wonder of this earth. 
Where there is little of transcendent worth, 



Kindly 



Like one of Shakespeare's women. 

she. 

And with a manner beyond courtesy, 
Received her father's friend; and, when I 

asked 
Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked. 
And told, as she had heard, the mournful 

tale: 

* That the poor sufferer's health began to 

fail 
Two years from my departure, but that 

then 
The lady, who had left him, came again. 
Her mien had been imperious, but she now 
Looked meek — perhaps remorse had 

brought her low. 601 

Her coming made him better, and they 

stayed 
Together at my father's — for I played 
As I remember with the lady's shawl; 
I might be six years old — but after all 
She left him.' * Why, her heart must have 

been tough. 
How did it end ? ' ' And was not this 

enough ? 
They met — they parted.' * Child, is there 

no more ? ' 

* Something within that interval which bore 
The stamp of why they parted, how they 

met; 610 

Yet if thine aged eyes disdain to wet 
Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's re- 
membered tears. 
Ask me no more, but let the silent years 
Be closed and cered over their memory. 
As yon mute marble where their corpses 

lie.' 
I urged and questioned still; she told me 

how 
All happened — but the cold world shall 
not know. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



A LYRICAL DRAMA 



IN FOUR ACTS 

AUDXSNE VIJEC, AMPHIAR^, SUB TERRAM ABDITE ? 



Prometheus Unbound best combines the va- 
rious elements of Shelley's genius in their most 
complete expression, and unites harmoniously 
his lyrically creative power of imagination and 



his 'passion for reforming the world.' It ia 
the fruit of an outburst of poetic energy un- 
der the double stimulus of his enthusiastic 
Greek studies, begun under Peacock's influ- 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



i6i 



ence, and of his delight in the beauty of Italy, 
whither he had removed for health and rest. 
It marks his full mastery of his powers. It is, 
not less than Queen Mab and The Revolt of 
Islam, a poem of the moral perfection of man ; 
and, not less than Alastor and Epipsychidion, a 
poem of spiritual ideality. He was himself in 
love with it : 'a poem of a higher character 
than anything I have yet attempted and per- 
haps less an imitation of anything that has 
gone before it,' he writes to Oilier ; and again, 
' a poem in my best style, whatever that may 
amount to, . . . the most perfect of my pro- 
ductions,' and ' the best thing I ever wrote ; ' 
and finally he says, ' Prometheus Unbound, I 
must tell you, is my favorite poem ; I charge 
you, therefore, especially to pet him and feed 
him with fine ink and good paper. ... I think, 
if I can judge by its merits, the Prometheus 
cannot sell beyond twenty copies.' Nor did he 
lose his affection for it. Trelawny records 
him as saying, ' If that is not durable poetry, 
tried by the severest test, I do not know what 
is. It is a lofty subject, not inadequately 
treated, and should not perish with me.' . . . 
' My friends say my Prometheus is too wild, 
ideal, and perplexed with imagery. It may be 
so. It has no resemblance to the Greek drama. 
It is original ; and cost rae severe mental labor. 
Authors, like mothers, prefer the children who 
have given them most trouble.' 

The drama was begun in the summer-house 
of his garden at Este about September, 1818, 
and the first Act had been finished as early as 
October 8 ; it was apparently laid aside, and 
again taken up at Rome in the spring of 1819, 
where, under the circumstances described in 
the preface, the second and third Acts were 
added, and the work, in its first form, was thus 
completed by April 6. The fourth Act was 
an afterthought, and was composed at Florence 
toward the end of the year. The whole was 
published, with other poems, in the summer of 
1820. 

The following extracts from Mrs. Shelley's 
long and admirable note show the progress of 
the poem during its composition, the atmo- 
sphere of its creation, and its general scheme : 

' The first aspect of Italy enchanted Shelley ; 
it seemed a garden of delight placed beneath 
a clearer and brighter heaven than any he had 
lived under before. He wrote long descriptive 
letters during the first year of his residence in 
Italy, which, as compositions, are the most 
beautiful in the world, and show how truly he 
appreciated and studied the wonders of nature 
and art in that divine land. 

' The poetical spirit within him speedily re- 
vived with all the power and with more than 
all the beauty of his first attempts. He medi- 
tated three subjects as the groundwork for 



lyrical Dramas. One was the story of Tasso : 
of this a slight fragment of a song of Tasso 
remains. The other was one founded on the 
book of Job, which he never abandoned in 
idea, but of which no trace remains among his 
papers. The third was the Prometheus Un- 
bound. The Greek tragedians were now his 
most familiar companions in his wanderings, 
and the sublime majesty of JEschylus filled 
him with wonder and delight. The father of 
Greek tragedy does not possess the pathos of 
Sophocles, nor the variety and tenderness of 
Euripides ; the interest on which he founds his 
dramas is often elevated above human vicis- 
situdes into the mighty passions and throes of 
gods and demigods — such fascinated the ab- 
stract imagination of Shelley. 

' We spent a month at Milan, visiting the 
Lake of Como during that interval. Thence we 
passed in succession to Pisa, Leghorn, the Baths 
of Lucca, Venice, Este, Rome, Naples, and 
back again to Rome, whither we returned early 
in March, 1819. During all this time Shelley 
meditated the subject of his drama, and wi'ote 
portions of it. Other poems were composed 
during this interval, and while at the Bagni di 
Lucca he translated Plato's Symposium. But 
though he diversified his studies, his thoughts 
centred in the Prometheus. At last, when at 
Rome, during a bright and beautiful spring, 
he gave up his whole time to the composition. 
The spot selected for his study was, as he men- 
tions in his preface, the mountainous ruins of 
the Baths of Caracalla. These are little known 
to the ordinary visitor at Rome. He describes 
them in a letter, with that poetry, and delicacy, 
and truth of description, which rendered his 
narrated impressions of scenery of unequalled 
beauty and interest. 

' At first he completed the drama in three 
acts. It was not till several months after, 
when at Florence, that he conceived that a 
fourth act, a sort of hymn of rejoicing in the 
fulfilment of the prophecies with regard to 
Prometheus, ought to be added to complete the 
composition. 

' The prominent feature of Shelley's theory of 
the destiny of the human species was, that evil 
is not inherent in the system of the creation, 
but an accident that might be expelled. This 
also forms a portion of Christianity ; God made 
earth and man perfect, till he, by his fall, 

' " Brought death into the world and all our woe." 

Shelley believed that mankind had only to will 
that there should be no evil, and there would 
be none. It is not my part in these notes to 
notice the arguments that have been urged 
against this opinion, but to mention the fact 
that he entertained it, and was indeed attached 
to it with fervent enthusiasm. That man could- 



l62 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



be so perfectionized as to be able to expel evil 
from his own nature, and from the greater 
part of the creation, was the cardinal point of 
his system. And the subject he loved best to 
dwell on, was the image of One warring- with 
the Evil Principle, oppressed not only by it, 
but by all, even the good, who were deluded 
into considering- evil a necessary portion of hu- 
manity ; a victim full of fortitude and hope, 
and the spirit of triumph emanating from a 
reliance in the ultimate omnipotence of good. 
Such he had dej)icted in his last poem, when 
he made Laon the enemy and the victim of 
tyrants. He now took a more idealized image 
of the same subject. He followed certain 
classical authorities in figuring Saturn as the 
good principle, Jupiter the usurping evil one, 
and Prometheus as the regenerator, who, un- 
able to bring mankind back to primitive inno- 
cence, used knowledge as a weapon to defeat 
evil, by leading mankind beyond the state 
wherein they are sinless through ignorance, to 
that in which they are virtuous through wis- 
dom. Jupiter punished the temerity of the 
Titan by chaining him to a rock of Caucasus, 
and causing a vulture to devour his still-re- 
newed heart. There was a prophecy afloat in 
heaven portending the fall of Jove, the secret 
of averting which was known only to Prome- 
theus ; and the god offered freedom from tor- 
ture on condition of its being communicated 
to him. According to the mythological story, 
this referred to the offspring of Thetis, who 
was destined to be greater than his father. 
Prometheus at last bought pardon for his 
crime of enriching mankind with his gifts, by 
revealing the prophecy. Hercules killed the 
vulture and set him free, and Thetis was mar- 
ried to Peleus the father of Achilles. 

' Shelley adapted the catastrophe of this 
story to his peculiar views. The son, greater 
than his father, born of the nuptials of Jupiter 
and Thetis, was to dethrone Evil and bring 
back a happier reign than that of Saturn. 
Prometheus defies the power of his enemy, 
and endures centuries of torture, till the hour 
arrives when Jove, blind to the real event, but 
darkly guessing that some great good to him- 
self will flow, espouses Thetis. At the moment, 
the Primal Power of the world drives him from 
his usurped throne, and Strength, in the per- 
son of Hercules, liberates Humanity, typified 
in Prometheus, from the tortures generated by 
evil done or suffered. Asia, one of the Ocean- 
ides, is the wife of Prometheus — she was, 
according to other mythological interpreta- 
tions, the same as Venus and Nature. When 
the Benefactor of Mankind is liberated, Nature 
resumes the beauty of her prime, and is united 
to her husband, the emblem of the human 
race, in perfect and happy union. In the 



fourth Act, the poet gives further scope to his 
imagination, and idealizes the forms of crea- 
tion, such as we know them, instead of such 
as they appeared to the Greeks. Maternal 
Earth, the mighty Parent, is superseded by the 
Spirit of the Earth — the guide of our planet 
through the realms of sky — while his fair and 
weaker companion and attendant, the Spirit of 
the Moon, receives bliss from the annihilation 
of Evil in the superior sphere. 

' Shelley develops, more particularly in the 
lyrics of this drama, his abstruse and imagina- 
tive theories with regard to the Creation. It 
requires a mind as subtle and penetrating as 
his own to understand the mystic meanings 
scattered throughout the poem. They elude 
the ordinary reader by their abstraction and 
delicacy of distinction, but they are far from 
vague. It was his design to write prose meta- 
physical essays on the nature of Man, which 
would have served to explain much of what is 
obscure in his poetry ; a few scattered frag- 
ments of observations and remarks alone re- 
main. He considered these philosophical views 
of mind and nature to be instinct with the 
intensest spirit of poetry. 

' More popular poets clothe the ideal with 
familiar and sensible imagery. Shelley loved 
to idealize the real — to gift the mechanism of 
the material universe with a soul and a voice, 
and to bestow such also on the most delicate 
and abstract emotions and thoughts of the 
mind. . . . 

' Through the whole Poem there reigns a 
sort of calm and holy spirit of love ; it soothes 
the tortured, and is hope to the expectant, till 
the prophecy is fulfilled, and Love, untainted 
by any evil, becomes the law of the world. . . . 

' The charm of the Roman climate helped to 
clothe his thoughts in greater beauty than they 
had ever worn before ; and as he wandered 
among the ruins, made one with nature in 
their decay, or gazed on the Praxitelean shapes 
that throng the Vatican, the Capitol, and the 
palaces of Rome, his soul imbibed forms of 
loveliness which became a portion of itself. 
There are many passages in the Prometheus 
which show the intense delight he received 
from such studies, and give back the impression 
with a beauty of poetical description peculiarly 
his own.' 

PREFACE 

The Greek tragic writers, in selecting as 
their subject any portion of their national his- 
tory or mythology, employed in their treatment 
of it a certain arbitrary discretion. They by 
no means conceived themselves bound to ad- 
here to the common interpretation or to imitate 
in story as in title their rivals and predecessors. 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 



163 



Such a system would have amounted to a 
resignation of those claims to preference over 
their competitors which incited the composition. 
The Agamemnonian story was exhibited on 
the Athenian theatre with as many variations 
as dramas. 

I have presumed to employ a similar license. 
The Prometheus Unbound of -^schylus sup- 
posed the reconciliation of Jupiter with his 
victim as the price of the disclosure of the 
danger threatened to his empire by the con- 
summation of his marriage with Thetis. 
Thetis, according to this view of the subject, 
was given in marriage to Peleus, and Prome- 
theus, by the permission of Jupiter, delivered 
from his captivity by Hercules. Had I framed 
my story on this model, I should have done no 
more than have attempted to restore the lost 
drama of vEschylus ; an ambition which, if 
my preference to this mode of treating the 
subject had incited me to cherish, the recollec- 
tion of the high comparison such an attempt 
would challenge might well abate. But, in 
truth, I was averse from a catastrophe so feeble 
as that of reconciling the Champion with the 
Oppressor of mankind. The moral interest of 
the fable, which is so powerfully sustained by 
the sufferings and endurance of Prometheus, 
would be annihilated if we could conceive of 
him as unsaying his high language and quailing 
before his successful and perfidious adversary. 
The only imaginary being, resembling in any 
degree Prometheus, is Satan ; and Prometheus 
is, in my judgment, a more poetical character 
than Satan, because, in addition to courage, 
and majesty, and firm and patient opposition 
to omnipotent force, he is susceptible of being 
described as exempt from the taints of ambi- 
tion, envy, revenge, and a desire for personal 
aggrandizement, which, in the hero of Paradise 
Lost, interfere Avith the interest. The charac- 
ter of Satan engenders in the mind a pernicious 
casuistry which leads us to weigh his faults 
with his wrongs, and to excuse the former be- 
cause the latter exceed all measure. In the 
minds of those who consider that magnificent 
fiction with a religious feeling it engenders 
something worse. But Prometheus is, as it 
were, the type of the highest perfection of 
moral and intellectiial nature impelled by the 
purest and the truest motives to the best and 
noblest ends. 

This Poem was chiefly written upon the 
mountainous ruins of the Baths of Caracalla, 
among the flowery glades and thickets of odor- 
iferous blossoming trees, which are extended 
in ever winding labyrinths upon its immense 
platforms and dizzy arches suspended in the 
air. The bright blue sky of Rome, and the 
effect of the vigorous awakening spring in that 
divinest climate, and the new life with which 



it drenches the spirits even to intoxication, "vrere 
the inspiration of this drama. 

The imagery which I have employed will be 
found, in many instances, to have been drawn 
from the operations of the human mind, or 
from those external actions by which they are 
expressed. This is unusual in modern poetry, 
although Dante and Shakespeare are full of 
instances of the same kind ; Dante indeed 
more than any other poet, and with greater 
success. But the Greek poets, as writers to 
whom no resource of awakening the sympathy 
of their contemporaries was unknown, were in 
the habitual use of this power ; and it is the 
study of their works (since a higher merit 
would probably be denied me) to which I am 
willing that nay readers should impute this 
singularity. 

One word is due in candor to the degree in 
which the study of contemporary writings may 
have tinged my composition, for such has been a 
topic of censure with regard to poems far more 
popular, and indeed more deservedly popular, 
than mine. It is impossible that any one, who 
inhabits the same age with such writers as 
those who stand in the foremost ranks of our 
own, can conscientiously assure himself that 
his language and tone of thought may not 
have been modified by the study of the pro- 
ductions of those extraordinary intellects. It 
is true that, not the spirit of their genius, but 
the forms in which it has manifested itself, 
are due less to the peculiarities of their own 
minds than to the peculiarity of the moral and 
intellectual condition of the minds among which 
they have been produced. Thus a number of 
writers possess the form, whilst they want the 
spirit of those whom, it is alleged, they imitate ; 
because the former is the endowment of the 
age in which they live, and the latter must be 
the uncommunicated lightning of their own 
mind. 

The peculiar style of intense and comprehen- 
sive imagery which distinguishes the modern 
literature of England has not been, as a general 
power, the product of the imitation of any par- 
ticular writer. The mass of capabilities re- 
mains at every period materially the same r 
the circumstances which awaken it to action 
perpetually change. If England were divided 
into forty republics, each equal in population 
and extent to Athens, there is no reason to 
suppose but that, under institutions not more 
perfect than those of Athens, each would pro- 
duce philosophers and poets equal to those who 
(if we except Shakespeare) have never been 
surpassed. We owe the great writers of the 
golden age of our literature to that fervid 
awakening of the public mind which shook to 
dust the oldest and most oppressive form of 
the Christian religion. We owe Milton to the 



j64 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



progress and development of the same spirit : 
the sacred Milton was, let it ever be remem- 
bered, a republican and a bold inquirer into 
morals and religion. The great writers of our 
own age are, we have reason to suppose, the 
companions and forerunners of some unima- 
gined change in our social condition or the opin- 
ions which cement it. The cloud of mind is 
discharging its collected lightning, and the 
equilibrium between institutions and opinions 
is now restoring or is about to be restored. 

As to imitation, poetry is a mimetic art. It 
creates, but it creates by combination and re- 
presentation. Poetical abstractions are beauti- 
ful and new, not because the portions of which 
they are composed had no previous existence 
in the mind of man or in Nature, but because 
the whole produced by their combination has 
some intelligible and beautiful analogy with 
those sources of emotion and thought and with 
the contemporary condition of them. One 
great poet is a masterpiece of Nature which 
another not only ought to study but must 
study. He might as wisely and as easily de- 
termine that his mind should no longer be the 
mirror of all that is lovely in the visible uni- 
verse as exclude from his contemplation the 
beautiful which exists in the writings of a 
great contemporary. The pretence of doing it 
would be a presumption in any but the greatest; 
the effect, even in him, would be strained, un- 
natural and ineffectual. A poet is the com- 
bined product of such internal powers as mod- 
ify the nature of others, and of such external 
influences as excite and sustain these powers ; 
he is not one, but both. Every man's mind is, 
in this respect, modified by all the objects of 
Nature and art ; by every word and every sug- 
gestion which he ever admitted to act upon his 
consciousness ; it is the mirror upon which all 
forms are reflected and in which they compose 
one form. Poets, not otherwise than philoso- 
phers, painters, sculptors and musicians, are, 
in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the 
creations, of tlieir age. From this subjection 
the loftiest do not escape. There is a similar- 
ity between Homer and Hesiod, between ^s- 
chylus and Euripides, between Virgil and Hor- 
ace, between Dante and Petrarch, between 
Shakespeare and Fletcher, between Dryden 



and Pope ; each has a generic resemblance 
under which their specific distinctions are ar- 
ranged. If this similarity be the result of imi- 
tation, I am willing to confess that I have 
imitated. 

Let this opportunity be conceded to me of 
acknowledging that I have what a Scotch 
philosopher characteristically terms a ' passion 
for reforming the world : ' what passion incited 
him to write and publish his book he omits to 
explain. For my part I had rather be damned 
with Plato and Lord Bacon than go to Heaven 
with Paley and Malthus. But it is a mistake 
to suppose that I dedicate my poetical compo- 
sitions solely to the direct enforcement of re- 
form, or that I consider them in any degree as 
containing a reasoned system on the theory of 
human life. Didactic poetry is my abhorrence ; 
nothing can be equally well expressed in prose 
that is not tedious and supererogatory in verse. 
My purpose has hitherto been simply to famil- 
iarize the highly refined imagination of the 
more select classes of poetical readers with 
beautiful idealisms of moral excellence ; aware 
that, until the mind can love, and admire, and 
trust, and hope, and endure, reasoned princi- 
ples of moral conduct are seeds cast upon the 
highway of life which the unconscious pas- 
senger tramples into dust, although they would 
bear the harvest of his happiness. Should I 
live to accomplish what I purpose, that is, 
produce a systematical history of what appear 
to me to be the genuine elements of human 
society, let not the advocates of injustice and 
superstition flatter themselves that I should 
take ^sehylus rather than Plato as my model. 

The having spoken of myself with unaffected 
freedom will need little apology with the can- 
did ; and let the uiicandid consider that they 
injure me less than their own hearts and minds 
by misrepresentation. Whatever talents a 
person may possess to amuse and instruct 
others, be they ever so inconsiderable, he is 
yet bound to exert them : if his attemjjt be 
ineffectual, let the punishment of an unaccom- 
plished purpose have been sufficient ; let none 
trouble themselves to heap the dust of oblivion 
upon his efforts ; the pile they raise will betray 
his grave which might otherwise have been 
unknown. 



ACT I 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



165 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 

DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Prometheus. 


Asia ] 


Demogorgon. 


Panthea >■ Oceanides 


Jupiter. 


lONE J 


The Earth. 


The Phantasm op Jupiter. 


Ocean. 


The Spirit of the Earth. 


Apollo. 


The Spirit of the Moon. 


Mercury. 


Spirits of the Hours. 


Hercules. 


Spirits. Echoes. Fauns. 




Furies. 



ACT I 

Scene, a Ravine of Icy Rocks in the Indian 
Caucasus. Prometheus is discovered bound 
10 the Precipice. Panthea and Ione are 
seated at his feet. Time, Night. During the 
Scene morning slowly breaks. 

PROMETHEUS 

Monarch of Gods and Daemons, and all 
Spirits 

But One, who throng those bright and roll- 
ing worlds 

Which Thou and I alone of living things 

Behold with sleepless eyes! regard this 
Earth 

Made multitudinous with thy slaves, whom 
thou 

Requitest for knee-worship, prayer, and 
praise, 

And toil, and hecatombs of broken hearts. 

With fear and self-contempt and barren 
hope; 

Whilst me, who am thy foe, eyeless in hate, 

Hast thou made reign and triumph, to thy 
scorn, 10 

O'er mine own misery and thy vain re- 
venge. 

Three thousand years of sleep-unsheltered 
hours, 

And moments aye divided by keen pangs 

Till they seemed years, torture and soli- 
tude, 

Scorn and despair — these are mine em- 
pire: 

More glorious far than that which thou 
surveyest 

From thine unenvied throne, O Mighty 
God! 

Almighty, had I deigned to share the shame 

Of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here 

Nailed to this wall of eagle-baffling moun- 
tain, 20 



Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured; without 

herb. 
Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of life. 
Ah me ! alas, pain, pain ever, forever ! 

No change, no pause, no hope ! Yet I 

endure. 
I ask the Earth, have not the mountains 

felt ? 
I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding Sun, 
Has it not seen ? The Sea, in storm or 

calm. 
Heaven's ever-changing shadow, spread 

below. 
Have its deaf waves not heard my agony ? 
Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, foiever ! 30 

The crawling glaciers pierce me with the 

spears 
Of their moon-freezing crystals; the bright 

chains 
Eat with their burning cold into my bones. 
Heaven's winged hound, polluting from thy 

lips 
His beak in poison not his own, tears up 
My heart; and shapeless sights come wan- 
dering by. 
The ghastly people of the realm of dream. 
Mocking me; and the Earthquake-fiends 

are charged 
To wrench the rivets from my quivering 

wounds 
When the rocks split and close again be- 
hind; 40 
While from their loud abysses howling 

throng 
The genii of the storm, urging the rage 
Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen 

hail. 
And yet to me welcome is day and night. 
Whether one breaks the hoar-frost of the 

morn. 
Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs 
The leaden-colored east; for then they 

lead 
The wingless, crawling hours, one among 

whom — 
As some dark Priest hales the reluctant 

victim — 
Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the 

blood so 

From these pale feet, which then might 

trample thee 
If they disdained not such a prostrate 

slave. 



i66 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT 1 



Disdain ! Ah, no ! I pity thee. What ruin 
Will hunt thee undefended through the 

wide Heaven! 
How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with 

terror. 
Gape like a hell within ! I speak in grief, 
Not exultation, for I hate no more, 
As then ere misery made me wise. The 

curse 
Once breathed on thee I would recall. Ye 

Mountains, 
Whose many-voiced Echoes, through the 

mist 60 

Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that 

spell ! 
Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling 

frost. 
Which vibrated to hear me, and then crept 
Shuddering through India ! Thou serenest 

Air 
Through which the Sun walks burning 

without beams ! 
And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poised 

wings 
Hung mute and moveless o'er yon hushed 

abyss. 
As thunder, louder than your own, made 

rock 
The orbed world ! If then my words had 

power. 
Though I am changed so that aught evil 

wish 70 

Is dead within; although no memory be 
Of what is hate, let them not lose it now ! 
What was that curse ? for ye all heard me 

speak. 

FIRST VOICE : from the Mountains 
Thrice three hundred thousand years 

O'er the earthquake's couch we stood; 
Oft, as men convulsed with fears, 

We trembled in our multitude. 

SECOND VOICE : from, the Springs 
Thunderbolts had parched our water, 

We had been stained with bitter blood, 
And had run mute, 'mid shrieks of 
slaughter 80 

Through a city and a solitude. 

THIRD VOICE : from the Air 
t had clothed, since Earth uprose, 

Its wastes in colors not their own, 
And oft had my serene repose 

Been cloven by many a rending groan. 



FOURTH VOICE : fro7n the Whirlwinds 

We had soared beneath these mountains 
UnrestintT ages; nor had thunder, 

Nor yon volcano's flaming fountains, 
Nor any power above or under 
Ever made us mute with wonder. 9^ 

FIRST VOICE 

But never bowed our snowy crest 
As at the voice of thine unrest. 

SECOND VOICE 

Never such a sound before 
To the Indian waves we bore. 
A pilot asleep on the howling sea 
Leaped up from the deck in agony, 
And heard, and cried, ' Ah, woe is me ! * 
And died as mad as the wild waves be. 

THIRD VOICE 

By such dread words from Earth to Heaven 
My still realm was never riven ; 100 

When its wound was closed, there stood 
Darkness o'er the day like blood. 

FOURTH VOICE 

And we shrank back: for dreams of ruin 
To frozen caves our flight pursuing 
Made us keep silence — thus — and thus — 
Though silence is a hell to us. 

THE EARTH 

The tongueless caverns of the craggy hills 
Cried, 'Misery ! ' then; the hollow Heaven 

replied, 
* Misery ! ' And the Ocean's purple waves, 
Climbing the land, howled to the lashing 

winds, no 

And the pale nations heard it, ' Misery ! ' 

PROMETHEUS 

I hear a sound of voices; not the voice 
Which I gave forth. Mother, thy sons and 

thou 
Scorn him, without whose all-enduring will 
Beneath the fierce omnipotence of Jove, 
Both they and thou had vanished, like thin 

mist 
Unrolled on the morning wind. Know ye 

not me. 
The Titan ? He who made his agony 
The barrier to your else all-conquering foe ? 
O rock-embosomed lawns and snow-fed 

streams, 120 

Now seen athwart frore vapors, deep beloWi 



ACT I 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



i6^ 



Through whose o'ershadowing woods I 

wandered once 
With Asia, drinking life from her loved 

eyes; 
Why scorns the spirit, which informs ye, 

now 
To commune with me ? me alone who 

checked. 
As one who checks a fiend-drawn charioteer, 
The falsehood and the force of him who 

reigns 
Supreme, and with the groans of pining 

slaves 
Fills your dim glens and liquid wildernesses: 
Why answer ye not, still ? Brethren ! 

THE EARTH 

They dare not. 130 

PROMETHEUS 

Who dares ? for I would hear that curse 

again. 
Ha, what an awful whisper rises up ! 
'T is scarce like sound; it tingles through 

the frame 
As lightning tingles, hovering ere it strike. 
Speak, Spirit ! from thine inorganic voice 
I only know that thou art moving near 
And love. How cursed I him ? 

THE EARTH 

How canst thou hear 
Who knowest not the language of the dead ? 

PROMETHEUS 

Thou art a living spirit; speak as they. 

THE EARTH 

I dare not speak like life, lest Heaven's 

fell King 140 

Should hear, and link me to some wheel of 

pain 
More torturing than the one whereon I roll. 
Subtle thou art and good; and thouffh the 

Gods 
Hear not this voice, yet thou art more than 

God, 
Being wise and kind: earnestly hearken 

now. 

PROMETHEUS 

Obscurely through my brain, like shadows 

dim. 
Sweep awful thoughts, rapid and thick. 

I feel 



Faint, like one mingled in entwining love; 
Yet 't is not pleasure. 

THE EARTH 

No, thou canst not hear; 
Thou art immortal, and this tongue is 
known ,50 

Only to those who die. 

PROMETHEUS 

And what art thou, 
melancholy Voice ? 

THE EARTH 

I am the Earth, 
Thy mother; she within whose stony veins, 
To the last fibre of the loftiest tree 
Whose thin leaves trembled in the frozen 

air, 
Joy ran, as blood within a living frame, 
When thou didst from her bosom, like z 

cloud 
Of glory, arise, a spirit of keen joy ! 
And at thy voice her pining sons uplifted 
Their prostrate brows from the polluting 

dust, 160 

And our almighty Tyrant with fierce dread 
Grew pale, until his thunder chained thee 

here. 
Then — see those million worlds which burn 

and roll 
Around us — their inhabitants beheld 
My spherM light wane in wide Heaven; 

the sea 
Was lifted by strange tempest, and new fire 
From earthquake-rifted mountains of 

bright snow 
Shook its portentous hair beneath Heaven's 

frown; 
Lightning and Inundation vexed the plains; 
Blue thistles bloomed in cities; foodless 

toads 170 

Within voluptuous chambers panting 

crawled. 
When Plague had fallen on man and beast 

and worm, 
And Famine ; and black blight on herb and 

tree; 
And in the corn, and vines, and meadow- 
grass, 
Teemed ineradicable poisonous weeds 
Draining their growth, for my wan breasi 

was dry 
With grief, and the thin air, my breatL, 

was stained 



1 68 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT I 



With the contagion of a mother's hate 
Breathed on her child's destroyer; ay, I 

heard 
Thy curse, the which, if thou rememberest 

not, i8o 

Yet my innumerable seas and streams. 
Mountains, and caves, and winds, and yon 

wide air. 
And the inarticulate people of the dead, 
Preserve, a treasured spell. We meditate 
In secret joy and hope those dreadful 

words, 
^ut dare not speak them. 

PROMETHEUS 

Venerable mother ! 
All else who live and suffer take from thee 
Some comfort; flowers, and fruits, and 

happy sounds. 
And love, though fleeting; these may not 

be mine. 
But mine own words, I pray, deny me 

not. 190 

THE EARTH 

They shall be told. Ere Babylon was dust, 
The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child. 
Met his own image walking in the gar- 
den. 
That apparition, sole of men, he saw. 
For know there are two worlds of life and 

death: 
One that which thou beholdest; but the 

other 
Is underneath the grave, where do inhabit 
The shadows of all forms that think and 

live. 
Till death unite them and they part no 

more; 199 

Dreams and the light imaginings of men. 
And all that faith creates or love desires. 
Terrible, strange, sublime and beauteous 

shapes. 
There thou art, and dost hang, a writhing 

shade, 
'Mid whirlwind-peopled mountains; all the 

gods 
Are there, and all the powers of nameless 

worlds, 
Vast, sceptred phantoms; heroes, men, and 

beasts; 
And Demogorgon, a tremendous gloom; 
And he, the supreme Tyrant, on his throne 
Of burning gold. Son, one of theSe shall 

utter 



The curse which all remember. Call at 

will 2ia 

Thine own ghost, or the ghost of Jupiter, 
Hades or Typlion, or what mightier Gods 
From all-prolific Evil, since thy ruin. 
Have sprung, and trampled on ray prostrate 

sons. 
Ask, and they must reply: so the revenge 
Of the Supreme may sweep through vacant 

shades, 
As rainy wind through the abandoned gate 
Of a fallen palace. 

PROMETHEUS 

Mother, let not aught 
Of that which may be evil pass again 
My lips, or those of aught resembling me. 
Phantasm of Jupiter, arise, appear ! 221 

lONB 

My wings are folded o'er mine ears; 

My wings are crossed o'er mine eyes; 
Yet through their silver shade appears, 

And through their lulling plumes arise, 
A Shape, a throng of sounds. 

May it be no ill to thee 
O thou of many wounds ! 
Near whom, for our sweet sister's sake, 
Ever thus we watch and wake. 234 

PANTHEA 

The sound is of whirlwind underground, 
Earthquake, and fire, and mountaina 
cloven ; 
The shape is awful, like the sound. 

Clothed in dark purple, star-inwoven, 
A sceptre of pale gold, 

To stay steps proud, o'er the slow 
cloud, 
His veined hand doth hold. 
Cruel he looks, but calm and strong. 
Like one who does, not suffers wrong. 

PHANTASM OF JUPITER 

Why have the secret powers of this strange 

world 24a 

Driven me, a frail and empty phantom, 

hither 
On direst storms ? What unaccustomed 

sounds 
Are hovering on my lips, unlike the voice 
With which our pallid race hold ghastly 

talk 
In darkness ? And, proud sufferer, whc 

art thou ? 



ACT I 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



169 



PROMETHEUS 

Tremendous Image ! as thou art must be 
He whom thou shadowest forth. I am his 

foe, 
The Titan. Speak the words which I would 

hear, 
Although no thought inform thine empty 

voice. 

THE EARTH 

Listen ! And though your echoes must be 
mute, 250 

Gray mountains, and old woods, and 
haunted springs, 

Prophetic caves, and isle - surrounding 
streams. 

Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak. 

PHANTASM 

A spirit seizes me and speaks within; 
It tears me as fire tears a thunder-cloud. 

PANTHEA 

See how he lifts his mighty looks ! the 

Heaven 
Darkens above. 

lONE 

He speaks ! Oh, shelter me ! 

PROMETHEUS 

I see the curse on gestures proud and cold. 
And looks of firm defiance, and calm hate. 
And such despair as mocks itself with 

smiles, 260 

Written as on a scroll: yet speak ! Oh, 

speak ! 

PHANTASM 

Fiend, I defy thee ! with a calm, fixed 
mind. 
All that thou canst inflict I bid thee 
do; 

Foul tyrant both of Gods and human- 
kind, 
One only being shalt thou not sub- 
due. 

Rain then thy plagues upon me here, 
Ghastly disease, and frenzyiug fear ; 
And let alternate frost and fire 
Eat into me, and be thine ire 

Lightning, and cutting hail, ard legioned 
forms 270 

Of furies, driving by upon the wounding 
storms. 



Ay, do thy worst ! Thou art omnipotent. 
O'er all things but thyself I gave thee 
power. 
And my own will. Be thy swift mis- 
chiefs sent 
To blast mankind, from yon etheres*^ 
tower. 

Let thy malignant spirit move 
In darkness over those I love; 
On me and mine I imprecate 
The utmost torture of thy hate; 
And thus devote to sleepless agony, 280 
This undeclining head while thou must 
reign on high. 

But thou, who art the God and Lord: O 
thou 
Who fillest with thy soul this world of 
woe. 

To whom all things of Earth and Heaven 
do bow 
In fear and worship — all-prevailing 
foe! 

I curse thee ! let a sufferer's curse 
Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse; 
Till thine Infinity shall be 
A robe of envenomed agony; 289 

And thine Omnipotence a crown of pain. 
To cling like burning gold round thy dis- 
solving brain! 

Heap on thy soul, by virtue of this Curse, 
111 deeds; then be thou damned, be- 
holding good; 
Both infinite as is the universe, 

And thou, and thy self-torturing soli- 
tude. 

An awful image of calm power 
Though now thou sittest, let the hour 
Come, when thou must appear to be 
That which thou art internally; 
And after many a false and fruitless 
crime, 30c 

Scorn track thy lagging fall through 
boundless space and time ! 

PROMETHEUS 

Were these my words, O Parent ? 

THE EARTH 

They were thine. 

PROMETHEUS 

It doth repent me; words are quick and 
vain; 



lyo 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT 1 



Grief for awhile is blind, and so was mine. 


PANTHEA 


I wish no living thing to suffer pain. 


The Titan looks as ever, firm, not proud. 


THE EABTH 


FIRST FURY 


Misery, oh, misery to me, 


Ha ! I scent life ! 


That Jove at length should vanquish 




thee ! 


SECOND FURY 


Wail, howl aloud, Land and Sea, 308 


Let me but look into his eyes ! 


The Earth's rent heart shall answer ye ! 




Howl, Spirits of the living and the dead. 


THIRD FURY 


Tour refuge, your defence, lies fallen and 


The hope of torturing him smells like a 


vanquished ! 


heap 




Of corpses to a death-bird after battle. 340 


FIBST ECHO 




Lies fallen and vanquished ! 


FIRST FURY 




Darest thou delay, Herald ! take cheer, 


SECOND ECHO 


Hounds 


Fallen and vanquished ! 


Of Hell: what if the Son of Maia soon 




Should make us food and sport — who can 


lONK 


please long 


Fear not: 't is but some passing spasm. 


The Omnipotent ? 


The Titan is unvanquished still. 




But see, where through the azure chasm 


MERCURY 


Of yon forked and snowy hill, 


Back to your towers of iron, 


Trampling the slant winds on high 


And gnash, beside the streams of fire and 


With golden-sandalled feet, that glow 


wail, 


Under plumes of purple dye, 320 


Your food less teeth. Geryon, arise ! and 


Like rose-ensanguined ivory, 


Gorgon, 


A Shape comes now, 


Chimsera, and thou Sphinx, subtlest of 


Stretching on high from his right hand 


fiends. 


A serpent-cinctured wand. 


Who ministered to Thebes Heaven's poi- 




soned wine, 348 


PANTHEA 


Unnatural love, and more unnatural hate: 


'T is Jove's world-wandering herald, Mer- 


These shall perform your task. 


cury. 






FIRST FURY 


lONE 


Oh, mercy ! mercy ! 


And who are those with hydra tresses 


We die with our desire ! drive us not back ! 


And iron wings, that climb the wind, 




Whom the frowning God represses, — 


MERCURY 


Like vapors steaming up behind. 


Crouch then in silence. 


Clanging loud, an endless crowd ? 330 


Awful Sufferer ! 




To thee unwilling, most unwillingly 


PANTHEA 


I come, by the great Father's will driven 


These are Jove's tempest-walking 


down. 


hounds, 


To execute a doom of new revenge. 


Whom he gluts with groans and blood, 


Alas ! I pity thee, and hate myself 


When charioted on sulphurous cloud 


That I can do no more; aye from thy sight 


He bursts Heaven's bounds. 


Returning, for a season. Heaven seems 




Hell, 


lONE 


So thy worn form pursues me night and dayj 


Ire they now led from the thin dead 


Smiling reproach. Wise art thou, firm and 


On new pangs to be fed ? 


good, 36( 



ACT I 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



171 



But vainly wouldst stand forth alone in 

strife 
Against the Omnipotent; as yon clear 

lamps, 
That measure and divide the weary years 
From which there is no refuge, long have 

taught 
And long must teach. Even now thy Tor- 
turer arms 
With the strange might of unimagined 

pains 
The powers who scheme slow agonies in 

Hell, 
And my commission is to lead them here, 
Or what more subtle, foul, or savage fiends 
People the abyss, and leave them to their 

task. 370 

Be it not so ! there is a secret known 
To thee, and to none else of living things. 
Which may transfer the sceptre of wide 

Heaven, 
The fear of which perplexes the Supreme. 
Clothe it in words, and bid it clasp his 

throne 
In intercession ; bend thy soul in prayer. 
And like a suppliant in some gorgeous fane. 
Let the will kneel within thy haughty 

heart. 
For benefits and meek submission tame 
Tiie fiercest and the mightiest. 

PROMETHEUS 

Evil minds 

Change good to their own nature. I gave 
all 381 

He has; and in return he chains me here 

Years, ages, night and day; whether the 
Sun 

Split my parched skin, or in the moony 
night 

The crystal-winged snow cling round my 
hair ; 

Whilst my beloved race is trampled down 

By his thought-executing ministers. 

Such is the tyrant's recompense. 'T is just. 

He who is evil can receive no good; 

And for a world bestowed, or a friend 
lost. 

He can feel hate, fear, shame; not grati- 
tude. 391 

He but requites me for his own misdeed. 

Kindness to such is keen reproach, which 
breaks 

With bitter stings the light sleep of Re- 
venge. 



Submission thou dost know I cannot try. 
For what submission but that fatal word, 
The death-seal of mankind's captivity, 
Like the Sicilian's hair-suspended sword, 
Which trembles o'er his crown, would he 

accept. 
Or could I yield ? Which yet I will not 

yield. 400 

Let others flatter Crime where it sits 

throned 
In brief Omnipotence; secure are they; 
For Justice, when triumphant, will weep 

down 
Pity, not punishment, on her own wrongs. 
Too much avenged by those who err. I 

wait. 
Enduring thus, the retributive hour 
Which since we spake is even nearer 

now. 
But hark, the hell-hounds clamor: fear 

delay : 
Behold ! Heaven lowers under thy Fathe».*'s 

frown. 409 

MERCURY 

Oh, that we might be spared; I to inflict, 
And thou to suffer ! Once more answer 

me. 
Thou knowest not the period of Jove's 

power ? 

PROMETHEUS 

I know but this, that it must come. 

MERCURY 

Alas! 
Thou canst not count thy years to come of 
pain ! 

PROMETHEUS 

They last while Jove must reign; nor 

more, nor less 
Do I desire or fear. 

MERCURY 

Yet pause, and plunge 
Into Eternity, where recorded time, 
Even all that we imagine, age on age. 
Seems but a point, and the reluctant mind 
Flags wearily in its unending flight, 420 
Till it sink, dizzy, blind, lost, shelterless; 
Perchance it has not numbered the slow 

years 
Which thou must spend in torture, unre- 

prieved ? 



172 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT f 



PKOMETHEUS 

Perchance no thought can count them, yet 
they pass. 

MERCURY 

If thou mightst dwell among the Gods the 

while, 
Lapped in voluptuous joy ? 

PROMETHEUS 

I would not quit 
This bleak ravine, these unrepentant pains. 

MERCURY 

Alas ! I wonder at, yet pity thee. 

PROMETHEUS 

Pity the self-despising slaves of Heaven, 
Not me, within whose mind sits peace 

serene, 430 

As light in the sun, throned. How vain is 

talk! 
Call up the fiends. 

lONE 

Oh, sister, look ! White fire 
Has cloven to the roots yon huge snow- 
loaded cedar; 
How fearfully God's thunder howls be- 
hind ! 

MERCURY 

I must obey his words and thine. Alas ! 
Most heavily remorse hangs at my heart ! 

PANTHEA 

See where the child of Heaven, with winged 

feet, 
Runs down the slanted sunlight of the 

dawn. 

lONE 

Dear sister, close thy plumes over thine 

eyes 
Lest thou behold and die; they come — 

they come — 440 

Blackening the birth of day with countless 

wings. 
And hollow underneath, like death. 



FIRST FURY 



SECOND FURY 

immortal Titan ! 



Prometheus ! 



THIRD FURY 

Champion of Heaven's slaves ! 

PROMETHEUS 

He whom some dreadful voice invokes is 
here, 

Prometheus, the chained Titan. Horrible 
forms. 

What and who are ye ? Never yet there 
came 

Phantasms so foul through monster-teeming 
Hell 

From the all-miscreative brain of Jove. 

Whilst I behold such execrable shapes, 

Methinks I grow like what I contemplate. 

And laugh and stare in loathsome sym- 
pathy. 451 

FIRST FURY 

We are the ministers of pain, and fear. 

And disappointment, and mistrust, and 
hate, 

And clinging crime; and as lean dogs pur- 
sue 

Through wood and lake some struck and 
sobbing fawn, 

We track all things that weep, and bleed, 
and live. 

When the great King betrays them to our 
will. 

PROMETHEUS 

many fearful natures in one name, 

1 know ye; and these lakes and echoes 

know 
The darkness and the clangor of your 

wings ! 460 

But why more hideous than your loathed 

selves 
Gather ye up in legions from the deep ? 

SECOKD FURY 

We knew not that. Sisters, rejoice, re- 



joice 



PROMETHEUS 

Can aught exult in its deformity ? 

SECOND FURY 

The beauty of delight makes lovers glad, 

Gazing on one another: so are we. 

As from the rose which the pale priestess 

kneels 
To gather for her festal crown of flowers 
The aerial crimson falls, flushing her cheek, 



ACT I 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



173 



So from our victim's destined agony 470 
The shade which is our form invests us 

round ; 
Else we are shapeless as our mother Night. 

PROMETHEUS 

I laugh your power, and his who sent you 

here, 
To lowest scorn. Pour forth the cup of 

pain. 

FIRST FURY 

Thou thinkest we will rend thee bone from 

bone 
And nerve from nerve, working like fire 

within ? 

PROMETHEUS 

Pain is my element, as hate is thine; 
Ye rend me now; I care not. 

SECOND FURY 

Dost imagine 
We will but laugh into thy lidless eyes ? 

PROMETHEUS 

I weigh not what ye do, but what ye 

suffer, 
Being evil. Cruel was the power which 

called 481 

You, or aught eke so wretched, into light. 

THIRD FURY 

Thou think'st we will live through thee, 

one by one, 
Like animal life, and though we can obscure 

not 
The soul which burns within, that we will 

dwell 
Beside it, like a vain loud multitude. 
Vexing the self-content of wisest men; 
That we will be dread thought beneath thy 

brain. 
And foul desire round thine astonished 

heart, 
And blood within thy labyrinthine veins 490 
Crawling like agony ? 

i PROMETHEUS 

Why, ye are thus now; 
Yet am I king over myself, and rule 
The torturing and conflicting throngs 

within. 
As Jove rules you when Hell grows muti- 
nous. 



CHORUS OF FURIES 

From the ends of the earth, from the ends 

of the earth. 
Where the night has its grave and the 
morning its birth. 
Come, come, come ! 
O ye who shake hills with the scream of 

your mirth 
When cities sink howling in ruin; and ye 
Who with wingless footsteps trample the 
sea, 500 

And close upon Shipwreck and Famine's 

track 
Sit chattering with joy on the foodless 
wreck; 

Come, come, come ! 
Leave the bed, low, cold, and red, 
Strewed beneath a nation dead; 
Leave the hatred, as in ashes 

Fire is left for future burning; 
It will burst in bloodier flashes 

When ye stir it, soon returning; 
Leave the self-contempt implanted 510 
In young spirits, sense-enchanted. 

Misery's yet unkindled fuel; 
Leave Hell's secrets half unchanted 

To the maniac dreamer; cruel 
More than ye can be with hate 
Is he with fear. 

Come, come, come ! 
We are steaming up from HelFs wide gate 
And we burden the blasts of the atmo- 
sphere. 
But vainly we toil till ye come here. 520 

lONE 

Sister, I hear the thunder of new wings. 

PANTHBA 

These solid mountains quiver with the sound 
Even as the tremulous air; their shadows 

make 
The space within my plumes more black 

than night. 

FIRST FURY 

Your call was as a winged car. 
Driven on whirlwinds fast and far; 
It rapt us from red gulfs of war. 

SECOND FURY 

From wide cities, famine-wasted; 

THIRD FURY 

Groans half heard, and blood untasted; 



174 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT I 



FOURTH FURY 

Kingly conclaves stern and cold, 530 

Where blood with gold is bought and sold ; 

FIFTH FURY 

From the furnace, white and hot, 
In which — 

A FURY 

Speak not; whisper not; 
I know all that ye would tell, 

But to speak might break the spell 
Which must bend the Invincible, 
The stern of thought; 
He yet defies the deepest power of Hell. 



FURY 



Tear the veil ! 



ANOTHER FURY 

It is torn. 

CHORUS 

The pale stars of the morn 
Shine on a misery, dire to be borne. 540 
Dost thou faint, mighty Titan ? We 

laugh thee to scorn. 
Dost thou boast the clear knowledge thou 

waken'dst for man ? 
Then was kindled within him a thirst 

which outran 
Those perishing waters; a thirst of fierce 

fever, 
Hope, love, doubt, desire, which consume 
him forever. 
One came forth of gentle worth. 
Smiling on the sanguine earth; 
His words outlived him, like swift poison 

Withering up truth, peace, and pity. 
Look ! where round the wide horizon 550 

Many a million-peopled city 
Vomits smoke in the bright air ! 
Mark that outcry of despair ! 
'T is his mild and gentle ghost 

Wailing for the faith he kindled. 
Look again ! the flames almost 

To a glow-worm's lamp have dwindled; 
The survivors round the embers 
Gather in dread. 
Joy, joy, joy ! 560 

Past ages crowd on thee, but each one re- 
members. 
And the future is dark, and the present is 
spread 



Like a pillow of thorns for thy slumberlees 
head. 

SEMICHORUS I 

Drops of bloody agony flow 

From his white and quivering brow. 

Grant a little respite now. 

See ! a disenchanted nation 

Springs like day from desolation; 

To Truth its state is dedicate, 

And Freedom leads it forth, her mate; 

A legioned band of linked brothers, 571 

Whom Love calls children — 

SEMICHORUS II 

'Tis another's. 
See how kindred murder kin ! 
'T is the vintage-time for Death and Sin; 
Blood, like new wine, bubbles within; 
Till Despair smothers 
The struggling world, which slaves and 
tyrants win. 

[All the Furies vanish, except one. 

lONE 

Hark, sister ! what a low yet dreadful groan 
Quite unsuppressed is tearing up the heart 
Of the good Titan, as storms tear the deep. 
And beasts hear the sea moan in inland 

caves. 581 

Darest thou observe how the fiends torture 

him ? 

PANTHBA 

Alas ! I looked forth twice, but will no 
more. 

lONE 

What didst thou see ? 

PANTHEA 

A woful sight: a youth 
With patient looks nailed to a crucifix. 



What next ? 



lONE 



PANTHBA 



The heaven around, the earth below. 
Was peopled with thick shapes of human 

death. 
All horrible, and wrought by human hands; 
And some appeared the work of human 

hearts, 569 



ACT I 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



175 



F(Jr men were slowly killed by frowns and 

smiles; 
And other sights too foul to speak and live 
Were wandering by. Let us not tempt 

worse fear 
By looking forth; those groans are grief 

enough. 

FURY 

Behold an emblem: those who do endure 
Deep wrongs for man, and scorn, and chains, 

but heap 
Thousand-fold torment on themselves and 

him. 

PROMETHEUS 

Remit the anguish of that lighted stare; 
Close those wan lips; let that thorn- wounded 

brow 
Stream not with blood; it mingles with 

thy tears ! 
Fix, fix those tortured orbs in peace and 

death, 600 

So thy sick throes shake not that crucifix. 
So those pale fingers play not with thy 

gore. 
Oh, horrible ! Thy name I will not speak — 
It hath become a cursa. I see, I see 
The wise, the mild, the lofty, and the just, 
Whom thy slaves hate for being like to 

thee. 
Some hunted by foul lies from their heart's 

home, 
An early-chosen, late-lamented home. 
As hooded ounces cling to the driven hind; 
Some linked to corpses in unwholesome 

cells; 610 

Some — hear 1 not the multitude laugh 

loud? — 
Impaled in lingering fire; and mighty 

realms 
Float by my feet, like sea-uprooted isles, 
Whose sons are kneaded down in common 

blood 
By the red light of their own burning 

homes. 

FURY 

Blood thou canst see, and fire; and canst 
hear groans: 

Worse things unheard, unseen, remain be- 
hind. 



PROMETHIUS 



Worse ? 



FURY 

In each human heart terror survives 
The ruin it has gorged: the loftiest fear 
All that they would disdain to think were 
true. 620 

Hypocrisy and custom make their minds 
The fanes of many a worship, now outworn 
They dare not devise good for man's es- 
tate. 
And yet they know not that they do not 

dare. 
The good want power, but to weep barren 

tears. 
The powerful goodness want; worse need 

for them. 
The wise want love; and those who love 

want wisdom; 
And all best things are thus confused to- 
ill. 
Many are strong and rich, and would be 

just, 629 

But live among their suffering fellow-men 
As if none felt; they know not what they 
do. 

PROMETHEUS 

Thy words are like a cloud of winged 

snakes ; 
And yet I pity those they torture not. 

FURY 

Thou pitiest them ? I speak no more ! 

[ Vanishes^ 

PROMETHEUS 

Ah woe ! 
Ah woe ! Alas ! pain, pain ever, forever ! 
I close my tearless eyes, but see more clear 
Thy works within my woe-illumed mind. 
Thou subtle tyrant ! Peace is in the 

grave. 
The grave hides all things beautiful and 

good. 
I am a God and cannot find it there, 640 
Nor would I seek it ; for, though dread 

revenge. 
This is defeat, fierce king, not victory. 
The sights with which thou torturest gird 

my soul 
With new endurance, till the hour arrives 
When they shall be no types of things 

which are. 

PANTHBA 

Alas ! what sawest thou ? 



176 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT I 



PROMETHEUS 

There are two woes — 

To speak and to behold; thou spare me 
one. 

Names are there, Nature's sacred watch- 
words, they 

Were borne aloft in bright emblazonry; 

The nations thronged around, and cried 
aloud, 650 

As with one voice, Truth, Liberty, and 
Love ! 

Suddenly fierce confusion fell from heaven 

Among them; there was strife, deceit, and 
fear; 

Tyrants rushed in, and did divide the spoil. 

This was the shadow of the truth I saw. 

THE EARTH 

I felt thy torture, son, with such mixed 

As pain and virtue give. To cheer thy 

state 
I hid ascend those subtle and fair spirits. 
Whose homes are the dim caves of human 

thought, 659 

And who inhabit, as birds wing the wind, 
Its worlu-surrounding ether; they behold 
Beyond that twilight realm, as in a glass, 
The future; may they speak comfort to 

thee! 

PANTHEA 

l^ok, sister, where a troop of spirits ga- 
ther. 

Like flocks of clouds in spring's delightful 
weather, 

Thronging in the blue air ! 

lONE 

And see ! more come. 
Like fountain-vapors when the winds are 

dumb, 
That climb up the ravine in scattered lines. 
And hark ! is it the music of the pines ? 
Is it the lake ? Is it the waterfall ? 670 

PANTHEA 

*Tis something sadder, sweeter far than 
all. 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS 

From unremembered ages we 
Gentle guides and guardians be 
Of heaven-oppressed mortality; 



And we breathe, and sicken not. 
The atmosphere of human thought: 
Be it dim, and dank, and gray. 
Like a storm-extinguished day, 
Travelled o'er by dying gleams; 

Be it bright as all between 68t 

Cloudless skies and windless streams. 

Silent, liquid, and serene ; 
As the birds within the wind. 

As the fish within the wave. 
As the thoughts of man's own mind 

Float through all above the grave; 
We make there our liquid lair. 
Voyaging cloudlike and unpent 
Through the boundless element: 
Thence we bear the prophecy 69* 

Which begins and ends in thee ! 

lONE 

More yet come, one by one; the air around 

them 
Looks radiant as the air around a star. 

FIRST SPIRIT 

On a battle-trumpet's blast 
I fled hither, fast, fast, fast, 
'Mid the darkness upward cast. 
From the dust of creeds outworn, 
From the tyrant's banner torn. 
Gathering round me, onward borne. 
There was mingled many a cry — 70c 
Freedom ! Hope ! Death ! Victory ! 
Till they faded through the sky; 
And one sound above, around. 
One sound beneath, around, above. 
Was moving; 't was the soul of love; 
'T was the hope, the prophecy. 
Which begins and ends in thee. 

SECOND SPIRIT 

A rainbow's arch stood on the sea, 

Which rocked beneath, immovably; 

And the triumphant storm did flee, 710 

Like a conqueror, swift and proud. 

Begirt with many a captive cloud, 

A shapeless, dark and rapid crowd. 

Each by lightning riven in half. 

I heard the thunder hoarsely laugh. 

Mighty fleets were strewn like chaff 

And spread beneath a hell of death 

O'er the white waters. I alit 

On a great ship lightning-split. 

And speeded hither on the sigh 721 

Of one who gave an enemy 

His plank, then plunged aside to die. 



ACT I 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



177 



THIRD SPIRIT 

I sat beside a sage's bed, 

And the lamp was burning red 

Near the book where he had fed, 

When a Dream with plumes of flame 

To his pillow hovering came, 

And I knew it was the same 

Which had kindled long ago 

Pity, eloquence, and woe; 730 

And the world awhile below 

Wore the shade its lustre made. 

It has borne me here as fleet 

As Desire's lightning feet; 

I must ride it back ere morrow, 

Or the sage will wake in sorrow. 

FOURTH SPIRIT 

On a poet's lips I slept 
Dreaming like a love-adept 
In the sound his breathing kept; 
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, 740 
But feeds on the aerial kisses 
Of shapes that haunt thought's wilder- 
nesses. 
He will watch from dawn to gloom 
The lake-reflected sun illume 
The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom. 
Nor heed nor see what things they be; 
But from these create he can 
Forms more real than living man, 
Nurslings of immortality ! 
One of these awakened me, 750 

And I sped to succor thee. 

lONE 

Behold'st thou not two shapes from the 

east and west 
Come, as two doves to one beloved nest. 
Twin nurslings of the all-sustaining air. 
On swift still wings glide down the at- 
mosphere ? 
And, hark ! their sweet sad voices ! 't is 

despair 
Mingled with love and then dissolved in 
sound. 

PANTHEA 

Canst thou speak, sister ? all my words are 
drowned. 

TONE 

Their beauty gives me voice. See how 

they float 
On their sustaining wings of skyey grain, 760 



Orange and azure deepening into gold ! 
Their soft smiles light the air like a star's 
fire. 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS 

Hast thou beheld the form of Love ? 

FIFTH SPIRIT 

As over wide dominions 
I sped, like some swift cloud that wings 

the wide air's wildernesses. 
That planet-crested Shape swept by on 

lightning-braided pinions, 
Scattering the liquid joy of life from his 

ambrosial tresses. 
His footsteps paved the world with light; 

but as I passed 't was fading. 
And hollow Ruin yawned behind; great 

sages bound in madness, 
And headless patriots, and pale youths who 

perished, unupbraiding. 
Gleamed in the night. I wandered o'er, 

till thou, O King of sadness, 770 

Turned by thy smile the worst I saw to 

recollected gladness. 

SIXTH SPIRIT 

Ah, sister ! Desolation is a delicate thing: 
It walks not on the earth, it floats not on 

the air. 
But treads with killing footstep, and fans 

with silent wing 
The tender hopes which in their hearts the 

best and gentlest bear; 
Who, soothed to false repose by the fan- 
ning plumes above 
And the music-stirring motion of its soft 

and busy feet, 
Dream visions of aerial joy, and call the 

monster, Love, 
And wake, and find the shadow Pain, as 

he whom now we greet. 

CHORUS 

Though Ruin now Love's shadow be, 78a 
Following him, destroyingly. 

On Death's white and winged steed. 
Which the fleetest cannot flee. 

Trampling down both flower and weed, 
Man and beast, and foul and fair, 
Like a tempest through the air; 
Thou shalt quell this horseman grim, 
Woundless though in heart or limbo 



178 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT ii : sc. I 



PROMETHEUS 

Spirits ! how know ye this shall be ? 

CHORUS 

In the atmosphere we breathe, 790 

As buds grow red, when the snow-storms 
flee, 

From spring gathering up beneath, 
Whose mild winds shake the elder-brake. 
And the wandering herdsmen know 
That the white-thorn soon will blow: 
Wisdom, Justice, Love, and Peace, 
When they struggle to increase. 
Are to us as soft winds be 
To shepherd boys, the prophecy 
Which begins and ends in thee. 800 

lONE 

Where are the Spirits fled ? 

PANTHEA 

Only a sense 
Remains of them, like the omnipotence 
Of music, when the inspired voice and lute 
Languish, ere yet the responses are mute. 
Which through the deep and labyrinthine 

soul. 
Like echoes through long caverns, wind 

and roll. 

PROMETHEUS 

How fair these air-born shapes ! and yet I 

feel 
Most vain all hope but love; and thou art 

far, 
Asia ! who, when my being overflowed, 809 
Wert like a golden chalice to bright wine 
Which else had sunk into the thirsty dust. 
All things are still. Alas ! how heavily 
This quiet morning weighs upon my heart; 
Though I should dream I could even 

sleep with grief, 
If slumber were denied not. I would fain 
Be what it is my destiny to be. 
The saviour and the strength of suffering 

man. 
Or sink into the original gulf of things. 
There is no agony, and no solace left; 
Earth can console. Heaven can torment no 

820 



more. 



PANTHEA 



Hast thou forgotten one who watches thee 
The cold dark night, and never sleeps but 

when 
The shadow of thy spirit falls on her ? 



PROMETHEUS 

I said all hope was vain but love; thou 
lovest. 

PANTHEA 

Deeply in truth; but the eastern star looks 
white. 

And Asia waits in that far Indian vale. 

The scene of her sad exile; rugged once 

And desolate and frozen, like this ravine; 

But now invested with fair flowers and 
herbs, 

And haunted by sweet airs and sounds, 
which flow 830 

Among the woods and waters, from the 
ether 

Of her transforming presence, which would 
fade 

If it were mingled not with thine. Fare- 
well ! 

ACT II 

Scene I. — Morning. A lovely Vale in the 
Indian Caucasus. Asia, alone. 

ASIA 

From all the blasts of heaven thou hast 

descended; 
Yes, like a spirit, like a thought, which 

makes 
Unwonted tears throng to the horny eyes, 
And beatings haunt the desolated heart. 
Which should have learned repose; thou 

hast descended 
Cradled in tempests; thou dost wake, O 

Spring ! 
O child of many winds ! As suddenly 
Thou comest as the memory of a dream. 
Which now is sad because it hath been 

sweet; 
Like genius, or like joy which riseth up 10 
As from the earth, clothing with golden 

clouds 
The desert of our life. 
This is the season, this the day, the hour; 
At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister 

mine. 
Too long desired, too long delaying, come ! 
How like death-worms the wingless mo- 
ments crawl ! 
The point of one white star is quivering 

still 
Deep in the orange light of widening morn 
Beyond the purple mountains; through a 

chasm 



ACT II: SC I 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



179 



Of wind-divided mist the darker lake 20 
Reflects it; now it wanes; it gleams again 
As the waves fade, and as the burning 

threads 
Of woven cloud unravel in pale air; 
'T is lost ! and through yon peaks of cloud- 
like snow 
The roseate sunlight quivers; hear I not 
The ^olian music of her sea-green plumes 
Winnowing the crimson dawn ? 

Panthea enters 

I feel, I see 
Those eyes which burn through smiles that 

fade in tears, 
Like stars half-quenched in mists of silver 

dew. 29 

Beloved and most beautiful, who wearest 
The shadow of that soul by which I live. 
How late thou art ! tbe sphered sun had 

climbed 
The sea; my heart was sick with hope, 

before 
The printless air felt thy belated plumes. 

PANTHEA 

Pardon, great Sister ! but my wings were 

faint 
With the delight of a remembered dream, 
As are the noontide plumes of summer 

winds 
Satiate with sweet flowers. I was wont to 

sleep 
Peacefully, and awake refreshed and calm, 
Before the sacred Titan's fall and thy 40 
Unhappy love had made, through use and 

pity, 

Both love and woe familiar to my heart 
As they had grown to thine: erewhile I 

slept 
Under the glaucous caverns of old Ocean 
Within dim bowers of green and purple 

moss, 
Our young lone's soft and milky arms 
Locked then, as now, behind my dark, 

moist hair. 
While my shut eyes and cheek were pressed 

within 
The folded depth of her life-breathing 

bosom: 49 

But not as now, since I am made the 

wind 
Which fails beneath the music that I hear 
Of thy most wordless converse ; since dis 

solved 



Into the sense with which love talks, my 

rest 
Was troubled and yet sweet; my waking 

hours 
Too full of care and pain. 

ASIA 

Lift up thine eyes, 
And let me read thy dream. 

PANTHEA 

As I have said, 
With our sea-sister at his feet I slept. 
The mountain mists, condensing at our 

voice 
Under the moon, had spread their snowy 

flakes. 
From the keen ice shielding our linked 

sleep. 60 

Then two dreams came. One I rememher 

not. 
But in the other his pale wound-worn limb» 
Fell from Prometheus, and the azure night 
Grew radiant with the glory of that form 
Which lives unchanged within, and his 

voice fell 
Like music which makes giddy the dim 

brain, 
Faint with intoxication of keen joy : 
* Sister of her whose footsteps pave tbe 

world 
With loveliness — more fair than aught 

but her. 
Whose shadow thou art — lift thine eyes 

on me.' 70 

I lifted them; the overpowering light 
Of that immortal shape was shadowed o'er 
By love; which, from his soft and flowing 

limbs. 
And passion-parted lips, and keen, faint 

eyes. 
Steamed forth like vaporous fire; an at- 
mosphere 
Which wrapped me in its all-dissolving 

power, 
As the warm ether of the morning sun 
Wraps ere it drinks some cloud of wander- 
ing dew. 
I saw not, heard not, moved not, only felt 
His presence flow and mingle through my 

blood 80 

Till it became his life, and his grew mine, 
And 1 was thus absorbed, until it passed, 
And like the vapors when the sun sinks 

down, 



i8o 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT II : SC. I 



Gathering again in drops upon the pines, 
And tremulous as they, in the deep night 
My being was condensed; and as the rays 
Of thought were slowly gathered, I could 

hear 
His voice, whose accents lingered ere they 

died 
Like footsteps of weak melody; thy name 
Among the many sounds alone I heard 90 
Of what might be articulate; though still 
I listened through the night when sound 

was none, 
lone wakened then, and said to me: 
' Canst thou divine what troubles me to- 
night ? 
I always knew what I desired before, 
Nor ever found delight to wish in vain. 
But now I cannot tell thee what I seek; 
1 know not; something sweet, since it is 

sweet 
Even to desire ; it is thy sport, false sis- 
ter; 
Thou hast discovered some enchantment 
old, 100 

Whose spells have stolen my spirit as 1 

slept 
And mingled it with thine; for when just 

now 
We kissed, I felt within thy parted lips 
The sweet air that sustained me; and the 

warmth 
Of the life-blood, for loss of which I 

faint, 
Quivered between our intertwining arms.' 
I answered not, for the Eastern star grew 

pale, 
But fled to thee. 

ASIA 

Thou speakest, but thy words 
Are as the air; I feel them not. Oh, lift 
Thine eyes, that I may read his written 
soul ! no 

PANTHEA 

I lift them, though they droop beneath the 

load 
Of that they would express; what canst 

thou see 
But thine own fairest shadow imaged there ? 

ASIA 

Thine eyes are like the deep, blue, bound- 
less heaven 
Contracted to two circles underneath 



Their long, fine lashes; dark, far, measure- 
less, 

Orb within orb, and line through line in- 
woven. 

PANTHBA 

Why lookest thou as if a spirit passed ? 

ASIA 

There is a change; beyond their inmost 

depth 
I see a shade, a shape: 't is He, arrayed 120 
In the soft light of his own smiles, which 

spread 
Like radiance from the cloud-surrounded 

moon. 
Prometheus, it is thine ! depart not yet ! 
Say not those smiles that we shall meet 

again 
Within that bright pavilion which their 

beams 
Shall build on the waste world ? The dream 

is told. 
What shape is that between us ? Its rude 

hair 
Roughens the wind that lifts it, its regard 
Is wild and quick, yet 't is a thing of air. 
For through its gray robe gleams the golden 

dew 130 

Whose stars the noon has quenched not. 



DREAM 



Follow ! Follow ! 

PANTHEA 

It is mine other dream. 

ASIA 

It disappears. 

PANTHEA 

It passes now into my mind. Methought 

As we sate here, the flower-infolding buds 

Burst on yon lightning - blasted almond 
tree; 

When swift from the white Scythian wil- 
derness 

A wind swept forth wrinkling the Earth 
with frost; 

I looked, and all the blossoms were blown 
down; 

But on each leaf was stamped, as the blue 
bells 

Of Hyacinth tell Apollo's written grief, 140 
' Oh, follow, follow ', 



ACT II : SC. I 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



i8i 



ASIA 

As you speak, your words 
Fill, pause by pause, my own forgotten 

sleep 
With shapes. Methought among the lawns 

together 
We wandered, underneath the young gray 

dawn, 
And multitudes of dense white fleecy clouds 
Were wandering in thick flocks along the 

mountains, 
Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind; 
And the white dew on the new-bladed 

grass, 
Just piercing the dark earth, hung silently; 
And there was more which I remember 

not*, 150 

But on the shadows of the morning clouds, 
Athwart the purple mountain slope, was 

written 
Follow, oh, follow ! as they vanished 

by; 
And on each herb, from which Heaven's 

dew had fallen, 
The like was stamped, as with a withering 

fire; 
A wind arose among the pines; it shook 
The clinging music from their boughs, and 

then 
Low, sweet, faint sounds, like the farewell 

of ghosts. 
Were heard : oh, follow, follow, follow 

ME ! 
And then I said, ' Panthea, look on me.' 160 
But in the depth of those beloved eyes 
Still I saw, follow, follow ! 



ECHO 



Follow, follow ! 



PANTHEA 

The crags, this clear spring morning, mock 

our voices. 
As they were spirit-tongued. 

ASIA 

It is some being 
Around the crags. What fine clear sounds ! 
Oh, list ! 

ECHOES, unseen 
Echoes we: listen ! 

We cannot stay: 
As dew-stars glisten 

Then fade away — 

Child of Ocean ! 170 



ASIA 



Hark ! Spirits speak. The liquid re- 
sponses 
Of their aerial tongues yet sound. 



PANTHEA 



ECHOES 



I hear. 



Oh, follow, follow, 

As our voice recedeth 
Through the caverns hollow, 
Where the forest spreadeth; 
(More distant) 
Oh, follow, follow ! 
Through the caverns hollow. 
As the song floats thou pursue, 
Where the wild bee never flew, rSo 
Through the noontide darkness deep. 
By the odor-breathing sleep 
Of faint night-flowers, and the waves 
At the fountain-lighted caves. 
While our music, wild and sweet, 
Mocks thy gently falling feet, 
Child of Ocean ! 

ASIA 

Shall we pursue the sound ? It grows 

more faint 
And distant. 

PANTHEA 

List ! the strain floats nearer now. 

ECHOES 

In the world unknown 190 

Sleeps a voice unspoken; 

By thy step alone 

Can its rest be broken; 
Child of Ocean ! 

ASIA 

How the notes sink upon the ebbing wind ! 

ECHOES 

Oh, follow, follow ! 

Through the caverns hollow, 
As the song floats thou pursue. 
By the woodland noontide dew; 
By the forests, lakes, and fountains, 200 
Through the many-folded mountains; 
To the rents, and gulfs, and chasms. 
Where the Earth reposed from spasms, 
On the day when He and thou 
Parted, to commingle now; 
Child of Ocean! 



l82 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT II : sc. II 



ASIA 



Come, sweet Panthea, link thy hand in 

mine, 
And follow, ere the voices fade away. 

Scene II. — A Forest intermingled with Rocks 
and Caverns. Asia and Panthea pass into 
it. Two young Fauns are sitting on a Rock, 
listening. 

SEMICHORUS I OF SPIRITS 

The path through which that lovely twain 
Have passed, by cedar, pine, and yew. 
And each dark tree that ever grew, 
Is curtained out from Heaven's wide 
blue; 

Nor sun, nor moon, nor wind, nor rain, 
Can pierce its interwoven bowers, 
Nor aught, save where some cloud of 
dew, 

Drifted along the earth-creeping breeze 

Between the trunks of the hoar trees, 9 
Hangs each a pearl in the pale flowers 
Of the green laurel blown anew, 

And bends, and then fades silently, 

One frail and fair anemone ; 

Or when some star of many a one 

That climbs and wanders through steep 
night. 

Has found the cleft through which alone 

Beams fall from high those depths upon, — 

Ere it is borne away, away. 

By the swift Heavens that cannot stay. 

It scatters drops of golden light, 20 

Like lines of rain that ne'er unite; 

And the gloom divine is all around; 

And underneath is the mossy ground. 

SEMICHORUS II 

There the voluptuous nightingales. 

Are awake through all the broad noon- 
day: 

When one with bliss or sadness fails. 

And through the windless ivy-boughs, 
Sick with sweet love, droops dying away 

On its mate's music-panting bosom; 

Another from the swinging blossom, 30 

Watching to catch the languid close 
Of the last strain, then lifts on high 
The wings of the weak melody, 

Till some new strain of feeling bear 
The song, and all the woods are mute; 

When there is heard through the dim air 

The rush of wings, and rising there. 
Like many a lake-surrounded flute, 



Sounds overflow the listener's brain 
So sweet, that joy is almost pain. 



49 



SEMICHORUS I 

There those enchanted eddies play 

Of echoes, music-tongued, which draw. 
By Demogorgon's mighty law. 
With melting rapture, or sweet awe. 
All spirits on that secret way, 

As inland boats are driven to Ocean 
Down streams made strong with mountain- 
thaw; 
And first there comes a gentle sound 
To those in talk or slumber bound, 

And wakes the destined; soft emo- 
tion 5c 
Attracts, impels them; those who saw 
Say from the breathing earth behind 
There steams a plume-uplifting wind 
Which drives them on their path, while 
they 
Believe their own swift wings and feet 
The sweet desires within obey; 
And so they float upon their way, 

Until, still sweet, but loud and strong. 
The storm of sound is driven along. 
Sucked up and hurrying; as they fleet 6« 
Behind, its gathering billows meet 
And to the fatal mountain bear 
Like clouds amid the yielding air. 

FIRST FAUN 

Canst thou imagine where those spirits 

live 
Which make such delicate music in the 

woods ? 
We haunt within the least frequented caves 
And closest coverts, and we know these 

wilds, 
Yet never meet them, though we hear 

them oft: 
Where may they hide themselves ? 

SECOND FAUN 

'T is hard to tell; 
I have heard those more skilled in spirits 

say, 70 

The bubbles, which the enchantment of the 

sun 
Sucks from the pale faint water-flowers 

that pave 
The oozy bottom of clear lakes and pools. 
Are the pavilions where such dwell and 

float 
Under the green and golden atmosphere 



ACT II : SC. Ill 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



183 



Which noontide kindles through the woven 
leaves ; 

And when these burst, and the thin fiery 
air, 

The which they breathed within those lu- 
cent domes, 

Ascends to flow like meteors through the 
night. 

They ride on them, and rein their headlong 
speed, 80 

And bow their burning crests, and glide in 
fire 

Under the waters of the earth again. 

FIRST FAUN 

If such live thus, have others other lives. 
Under pink blossoms or within the bells 
Of meadow flowers or folded violets deep, 
Or on their dying odors, when they die, 
Or in the sunlight of the sphered dew ? 

SECOND FAUN 

Ay, many more which we may well divine. 
But should we stay to speak, noontide 

would come. 
And thwart Silenus find his goats un- 
drawn, 90 
And grudge to sing those wise and lovely 

songs 
Of Fate, and Chance, and God, and Chaos 

old, 
And Love and the chained Titan's woful 

doom. 
And how he shall be loosed, and make the 

earth 
One brotherhood; delightful strains which 

cheer 
Our solitary twilights, and which charm 
To silence the unenvying nightingales. 



Scene III. — A Pinnacle of Rock among 
Mountains. Asia and Panthea. 

PANTHEA 

Hither the sound has borne us — to the 

realm 
Of Demogorgon, and the mighty portal. 
Like a volcano's meteor-breathing chasm. 
Whence the oracular vapor is hurled up 
Which lonely men drink wandering in their 

youth. 
And call truth, virtue, love, genius, or joy, 
That maddening wine of life, whose dregs 

they drain 



To deep intoxication; and uplift. 
Like Maenads who cry loud, Evoe ! Evoe! 
The voice which is contagion to the 
world. 10 

ASIA 

Fit throne for such a Power ! Magnifi- 
cent ! 
How glorious art thou. Earth ! and if thou 

be 
The shadow of some spirit lovelier still. 
Though evil stain its work, and it should 

be 
Like its creation, weak yet beautiful, 
1 could fall down and worship that and 

thee. 
Even now my heart adoreth. Wonderful ! 
Look, sister, ere the vapor dim thy brain: 
Beneath is a wide plain of billowy mist, 
As a lake, paving in the morning sky, 29 
With azure waves which burst in silver 

light. 
Some Indian vale. Behold it, rolling on 
Under the curdling winds, and islanding 
The peak whereon we stand, midway, 

around, 
Encinctured by the dark and blooming 

forests. 
Dim twilight-lawns, and stream-illumined 

caves. 
And wind-enchanted shapes of wandering 

mist; 
And far on high the keen sky-cleaving 

mountains 
From icy spires of sunlike radiance fling 25 
The dawn, as lifted Ocean's dazzling spray, 
From some Atlantic islet scattered up. 
Spangles the wind with lamp-like water- 
drops. 
The vale is girdled with their walls, a 

howl 
Of cataracts from their thaw-cloven ra- 
vines 
Satiates the listening wind, continuous, vast, 
Awful as silence. Hark ! the rushing 

snow ! 
The sun-awakened avalanche ! whose mass. 
Thrice sifted by the storm, had gathered 

there 
Flake after flake, in heaven-defying minds 
As thought by thought is piled, till some 
great truth 40 

Is loosened, and the nations echo round, 
Shaken to their roots, as do the mount*iii8 
now. 



i84 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT II : SC. IV 



PANTHEA 

Look how the gusty sea of mist is breaking 
In crimson foam, even at our feet ! it rises 
As Ocean at the enchantment of the moon 
Kound foodless men wrecked on some oozy 
isle. 

ASIA 

The fragments of the cloud are scattered 

up; 
The wind that lifts them disentwiues my 

hair; 
Its billows now sweep o'er mine eyes; my 

brain 49 

Grows dizzy; I see shapes within the mist. 

PANTHEA 

A countenance with beckoning smiles; 

there burns 
An azure lire within its golden locks ! 
Another and another: hark ! they speak ! 

SONG OF SPIRITS 

To the deep, to the deep, 

Down, down ! 
Through the shade of sleep, 
Through the cloudy strife 
Of Death and of Life; 
Throusfh the veil and the bar 
Of things which seem and are, 60 

Even to the steps of the remotest throne, 

Down, down ! 

While the sound whirls around, 

Down, down ! 
As the fawn draws the hound. 
As the lightning the vapor. 
As a weak moth the taper; 
Death, despair; love, sorrow; 
Time, both; to-day, to-morrow; 
As steel obeys the spirit of the stone, 70 

Down, down ! 

Through the gray, void abysm, 

Down, down ! 
Where the air is no prism. 
And the moon and stars are not. 
And the cavern-crags wear not 
The radiance of Heaven, 
Nor the gloom to Earth given. 
Where there is one pervading, one alone, 

Down, down ! 80 

In the depth of the deep 
Down, down ! 



Like veiled lightning asleep. 
Like the spark nursed in embers, 
The last look Love remembers, 
Like a diamond, which shines 
On the dark wealth of mines, 
A spell is treasured but for thee alone. 
Down, down ! 

We have bound thee, we guide thee; 90 

Down, down ! 
With the bright form beside thee; 

Resist not the weakness. 
Such strength is in meekness 
That the Eternal, the Immortal, 
Must unloose through life's portal 
The snake-like Doom coiled underneath 

his throne 

By that alone. 

Scene IV. — The Cave o/" Demogorgon. 
Asia and Panthea. 

PANTHEA 

What veiled form sits on that ebon throne ? 

ASIA 

The veil has fallen. 

PANTHEA 

I see a mighty darkness 
Filling the seat of power, and rays of gloom 
Dart round, as light from the meridian sun, 
Ungazed upon and shapeless; neither limb. 
Nor form, nor outline; yet we feel it is 
A living Spirit. 

DEMOGORGON 

Ask what thou wouldst know. 

ASIA 

What canst thou tell ? 

DEMOGORGON 

All things thou dar'st demand. 

ASIA 

Who made the living world ? 



DEMOGORGON 



God. 



ASIA 



Who made all 
That it contains ? thought, passion, reason, 
will, 10 

Imagination ? 



ACT 11 : SC. IV 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



185 



DEMOGORGON 

God ; Almighty God. 

ASIA 

Who made that sense which, when the 

winds of spring 
In rarest visitation, or the voice 
Of one beloved heard in youth alone, 
Fills the faint eyes with falling tears which 

dim 
The radiant looks of unbewailing flowers. 
And leaves this peopled earth a solitude 
When it returns no more ? 



DEMOGORGON 



Merciful God. 



ASIA 



And who made terror, madness, crime, re- 
morse, 

Which from the links of the great chain of 
things 20 

To every thought within the mind of man 

Sway and drag heavily, and each one reels 

Under the load towards the pit of death ; 

Abandoned hope, and love that turns to 
hate; 

And self-contempt, bitterer to drink than 
blood; 

Pain, whose unheeded and familiar speech 

Is howling, and keen shrieks, day after 
day; 

And Hell, or the sharp fear of Hell ? 



DEMOGORGON 



ASIA 



He reigns. 



Utter his name ; a world pining in pain 
Asks but his name; curses shall drag him 



down. 



30 



DEMOGORGON 



He reigns. 



ASIA 

I feel, I know it: who ? 



DEMOGORGON 



ASIA 



He reigns. 



Who reigns ? There was the Heaven and 
Earth at first, 



And Light and Love; then Saturn, from 

whose throne 
Time fell, an envious shadow; such the 

state 
Of the earth's primal spirits beneath his 

sway. 
As the calm joy of flowers and living 

leaves 
Before the wind or sun has withered them 
And semivital worms ; but he refused 
The birthright of their being, knowledge, 

power. 
The skill which wields the elements, the 

thought 40 

Which pierces this dim universe like light, 
Self-empire, and the majesty of love; 
For thirst of which they fainted. Then 

Prometheus 
Gave wisdom, which is strength, to Jupiter, 
And with this law alone, ' Let man be 

free,' 
Clothed him with the dominion of wide 

Heaven. 
To know nor faith, nor love, nor law, to be 
Omnipotent but friendless, is to reign; 
And Jove now reigned; for on the race of 

man 
First famine, and then toil, and then dis- 
ease, 50 
Strife, wounds, and ghastly death unseen 

before. 
Fell; and the unseasonable seasons drove. 
With alternating shafts of frost and fire. 
Their shelterless, pale tribes to mountain 

caves; 
And in their desert hearts fierce wants he 

sent. 
And mad disquietudes, and shadows idle 
Of unreal good, which levied mutual war. 
So ruining the lair wherein they raged. 
Prometheus saw, and waked the legioned 

hopes 59 

Which sleep within folded Elysian flowers. 
Nepenthe, Moly, Amaranth, fadeless 

blooms, 
That they might hide with thin and rain- 
bow wings 
The shape of Death; and Love he sent to 

bind 
The disunited tendrils of that vine 
Which bears the wine of life, the human 

heart; 
And he tamed fire which, like some beast 

of prey. 
Most terrible, but lovely, played beneath 



iS6 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT II : SC. IV 



The frown of man; and tortured to his 

will 
Iron and gold, the slaves and signs of 

power, 
And gems and poisons, and all subtlest 

forms 70 

Hidden beneath the mountains and the 

waves. 
He gave man speech, and speech created 

thought, 
Which is the measure of the universe; 
And Science struck the thrones of earth 

and heaven, 
Which shook, but fell not; and the har- 
monious mind 
Poured itself forth in all-prophetic song; 
And music lifted up the listening spirit 
Until it walked, exempt from mortal care. 
Godlike, o'er the clear billows of sweet 

sound ; 
And human hands first mimicked and then 

mocked, 80 

With moulded limbs more lovely than its 

own. 
The human form, till marble grew divine; 
And mothers, gazing, drank the love men 

see 
Reflected in their race, behold, and perish. 
He told the hidden power of herbs and 

springs. 
And Disease drank and slept. Death grew 

like sleep. 
He taught the implicated orbits woven 
Of the wide- wandering stars; and how the 

sun 
Changes his lair, and by what secret spell 
The pale moon is transformed, when her 

broad eye 90 

Gazes not on the interlunar sea. 
He taught to rule, as life directs the limbs, 
The tempest-winged chariots of the Ocean, 
And the Celt knew the Indian. Cities then 
Were built, and throus^h their snow-like 

columns flowed 
The warm winds, and the azure ether shone. 
And the blue sea and shadowy hills were 

seen. 
Such, the alleviations of his state, 
Prometheus gave to man, for which he 

hangs 
Withering in destined pain; but who rains 

down 100 

Evil, the immedicable plague, which, while 
Man looks on his creation like a god 
And sees that it is glorious, drives him on. 



The wreck of his own will, the scorn of 
earth. 

The outcast, the abandoned, the alone ? 

Not Jove : while yet his frown shook heaven 
ay, when 

His adversary from adamantine chains 

Cursed him, he trembled like a slave. De- 
clare 

Who is his master ? Is he too a slave ? 

DEMOGORGON 

All spirits are enslaved which serve things 
evil: no 

Thou knowest if Jupiter be such or no. 

ASIA. 

Whom called'st thou God ? 

DEMOGORGON 

I spoke but as ye speak>. 
For Jove is the supreme of living things. 

ASIA 

Who is the master of the slave ? 

DEMOGORGON 

If the abysm 
Could voirit forth its secrets — but a voice 
Is wanting, the deep truth is imageless; 
For what would it avail to bid thee gaze 
On the revolving world ? What to bid 

speak 
Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance and Change ? 

To these 
All things are subject but eternal Love. 120 

ASIA 

So much I asked before, and my heart gave 
The response thou hast given; and of such 

truths 
Each to itself must be the oracle. 
One more demajid ; and do thou answer me 
As my own soul would answer, did it know 
That which I ask. Prometheus shall arise 
Henceforth the sun of this rejoicing world: 
When shall the destined hour arrive ? 



DEMOGORGON 



ASIA 



Behold f 



The rocks are cloven, and through the pur- 
ple night 

I see cars drawn by rainbow - winged 
steeds 13a 



ACT II : SC. V 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



187 



Which trample the dim winds; in each there 

stands 
A wild-eyed charioteer urging their flight. 
Some look behind, as fiends pursued them 

there, 
And yet I see no shapes but the keen stars; 
Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, and 

drink 
With eager lips the wind of their own 

speed. 
As if the thing they loved fled on before, 
And now, even now, they clasped it. Their 

bright locks 
Stream like a comet's flashing hair; they 

all 139 

Sweep onward. 

DEMOGORGON 

These are the immortal Hours, 
Of whom thou didst demand. One waits 
for thee. 

ASIA 

A Spirit with a dreadful countenance 
Checks its dark chariot by the craggy gulf. 
Unlike thy brethren, ghastly Charioteer, 
Who art thou ? Whither wouldst thou 
bear me ? Speak ! 

SPIRIT 

I am the Shadow of a destiny 

More dread than is my aspect; ere yon 

planet 
Has set, the darkness which ascends with 

me 
Shall wrap in lasting night heaven's kingless 

throne. 149 

ASIA 

What meanest thou ? 

PANTHEA 

That terrible Shadow floats 
Up from its throne, as may the lurid smoke 
Of earthquake-ruined cities o'er the sea. 
liO ! it ascends the car; the coursers fly 
Terrified ; watch its path among the stars 
Blackening the night ! 

ASIA 

Thus I am answered: strange ! 

PANTHEA 

See, near the verge, another chariot stays; 
An ivory shell inlaid with crimson fire. 



Which comes and goes within its sculptured 



rim 
Of delicate strange tracery; the young 

Spirit 
That guides it has the dove-like eyes of 

hope; 160 

How its soft smiles attract the soul ! as 

light 
Lures winged insects through the lampless 

air. 

SPIRIT 

My coursers are fed with the lightning, 
They drink of the whirlwind's stream. 

And when the red morning is bright'ning 
They bathe in the fresh sunbeam. 
They have strength for their swiftness I 
deem ; 

Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. 

I desire — and their speed makes night 
kindle ; 

I fear — they outstrip the typhoon ; 170 
Ere the cloud piled on Atlas can dwindle 

We encircle the earth and the moon. 

We shall rest from long labors at noon; 
Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. 



Scene V. — The Car pauses within a Cloud on 
the Top of a snowy Mountain. Asia, Pan- 
THEA, and the Spirit of the Hour. 

spirit 

On the brink of the night and the morning 

My coursers are wont to respire; 
But the Earth has just whispered a warn- 
ing 
That their flight must be swifter than 

fire; 
They shall drink the hot speed of desire ! 

ASIA 

Thou breathest on their nostrils, but my 

breath 
Would give them swifter speed. 

spirit 

Alas ! it could not 

PANTHEA 

O Spirit ! pause, and tell whence is the 

light 

Which fills the cloud ? the sun is yet un- 

risen. 9 



i88 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT II : SC. V 



SPIRIT 

The sun will rise not until noon. Apollo 
Is held in heaven by wonder; and the light 
Which fills this vapor, as the aerial hue 
Of fountain-gazing roses fills the water, 
Flows from thy mighty sister. 



PANTHEA 



ASIA 



Yes, I feel — 



What is it with thee, sister ? Thou art 
pale. 

PAN THE A 

How thou art changed ! I dare not look 

on thee; 
1 feel but see thee not. I scarce endure 
The radiance of thy beauty. Some good 

change 
Is working in the elements, which suffer 
Thy presence thus unveiled. The Nereids 
tell 20 

That on the day when the clear hyaline 
Was cloven at thy uprise, and thou didst 

stand 
Within a veined shell, which floated on 
Over the calm floor of the crystal sea. 
Among the ^gean isles, and by the shores 
Which bear thy name, — love, like the at- 
mosphere 
Of the sun's fire filling the living world. 
Burst from thee, and illumined earth and 

heaven 
And the deep ocean and the sunless caves 
And all that dwells within them; till grief 
cast 30 

Eclipse upon the soul from which it came. 
Such art thou now; nor is it I alone. 
Thy sister, thy companion, thine own chosen 

one. 
But the whole world which seeks thy sym- 
pathy. 
Hearest thou not sounds i' the air which 

speak the love 
Of all articulate beings ? Feelest thou not 
The inanimate winds enamoured of thee ? 
List ! l^Music. 

ASIA 

Thy words are sweeter than aught else but 

his 
Whose echoes they are; yet all love is 

sweet, 
Given or returned. Common as light is 

love, 40 



And its familiar voice wearies not ever. 
Like the wide heaven, the all-sustaining air, 
It makes the reptile equal to the God; 
They who inspire it most are fortunate, 
As I am now; but those who feel it most 
Are happier still, after long sufferings. 
As I shall soon become. 

PANTHEA 

List ! Spirits speak. 

VOICE in the air, singing 

Life of Life, thy lips enkindle 

With their love the breath between them ; 
And thy smiles before they dwindle 50 

Make the cold air fire; then screen them 
In those looks, where whoso gazes 
Faints, entangled in their mazes. 

Child of Light ! thy limbs are burning 
Through the vest which seems to hide 
them; 
As the radiant lines of morning 

Through the clouds, ere they divide 
them ; 
And this atmosphere divinest 
Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. 

Fair are others; none beholds thee, 60 

But thy voice sounds low and tender 

Like the fairest, for it folds thee 

From the sight, that liquid splendor, 

And all feel, yet see thee never. 

As I feel now, lost forever ! 

Lamp of Earth ! where'er thou movest 
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness. 

And the souls of whom thou lovest 
Walk upon the winds with lightness, 

Till they fail, as I am failing, 70 

Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! 

ASIA 

My soul is an enchanted boat. 
Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float 

Upon the silver waves of thy sweet sing- 
ing; 
And thine doth like an angel sit 
Beside a helm conducting it. 

Whilst all the winds with melody are ring- 
ing. 
It seems to float ever, forever. 
Upon that many- winding river. 
Between mountains, woods, abysses, 80 
A paradise of wildernesses ! 



ACT III : SC. I 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



189 



Till, like one in slumber bound, 
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around, 
Into a sea profound of ever-spreading 
sound. 

Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions 
In music's most serene dominions; 
Catching the winds that fan that happy 
heaven. 
And we sail on, away, afar, 
Without a course, without a star. 
But, by the instinct of sweet music 
driven; 90 

Till through Elysian garden islets 
By thee most beautiful of pilots. 
Where never mortal pinnace glided, 
The boat of my desire is guided; 
Realms where the air we breathe is love. 
Which in the winds on the waves doth 

move. 
Harmonizing this earth with what we feel 
above. 

We have passed Age's icy caves. 

And Manhood's dark and tossing waves. 

And Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to 
betray ; 100 

Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee 
Of shadow-peopled Infancy, 

Through Death and Birth, to a diviner day ; 
A paradise of vaulted bowers 
Lit by downward-gazing flowers. 
And watery paths that wind between 
Wildernesses calm and green. 

Peopled by shapes too bright to see. 

And rest, having beheld; somewhat like 
thee; 

Which walk upon the sea, and chant melo- 
diously ! no 

ACT III 

Scene I. — Heaven. Jupiter on Ms Throne ; 
Thetis and the other Deities assembled. 

JUPITER 

Ye congregated powers of heaven, who 

share 
The glory and the strength of him ye 

serve, 
Rejoice ! henceforth I am omnipotent. 
All else had been subdued to me ; alone 
The soul of man, like unextinguished fire. 
Yet bums towards heaven with fiprce re- 
proach, and doubt, 



And lamentation, and reluctant prayer, 
Hurling up insurrection, which might 

make 
Our antique empire insecure, though built 
On eldest faith, and hell's coeval, fear; 10 
And though my curses through the pendu- 
lous air. 
Like snow on herbless peaks, fall flake by 

flake, 
And cling to it; though under my wrath's 

night 
It climb the crags of life, step after step, 
Which wound it, as ice wounds unsaudalled 

feet. 
It yet remains supreme o'er misery. 
Aspiring, uurepressed, yet soon to fall; 
Even now have I begotten a strange won- 
der, 
That fatal child, the terror of the earth. 
Who waits but till the destined hour ar- 
rive, 20 
Bearing from Demogorgon's vacant throne 
The dreadful might of ever-living limbs 
Which clothed that awful spirit unbeheld, 
To redescend, and trample out the spark. 

Pour forth heaven's wine, Idsean Gany- 
mede, 
And let it fill the dsedal cups like fire. 
And from the flower-inwoven soil divine, 
Ye all-triumphant harmonies, arise, 
As dew from earth under the twilight 

stars. 
Drink ! be the nectar circling through your 

veins 3a 

The soul of joy, ye ever-living Gods, 
Till exultation burst in one wide voice 
Like music from Elysian winds. 

And thou 
Ascend beside me, veiled in the light 
Of the desire which makes thee one with 

me, 
Thetis, bright image of eternity ! 
When thou didst cry, * Insufferable might ! 
God ! spare me ! I sustain not the quick 

flames. 
The penetrating presence; all my being, 
Like him whom the Numidian seps did 

thaw 4a 

Into a dew with poison, is dissolved. 
Sinking through its foundations,' — even 

then 
Two mighty spirits, mingling, made a 

third 
Mightier than either, which, unbodied now» 



IQO 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT III: sc. 11 



Between us floats, felt, although unbeheld, 
Waiting the incarnation, which ascends, 
(Hear ye the thunder of the fiery wheels 
Griding the winds ?) from Demogorgon's 

throne. 
Victory ! victory ! Feel'st thou not, O 

world. 
The earthquake of his chariot thundering 

up 50 

Olympus ? 

[The Car of the Hour arrives. Demo- 
GORGON descends and moves towards the 
Throne of Jupiter. 

Awful shape, what art thou ? Speak ! 

DEMOGORGON 

Eternity. Demand no direr name. 

Descend, and follow me down the abyss. 

I am thy child, as thou wert Saturn's 
child; 

Mightier than thee; and we must dwell to- 
gether 

Henceforth in darkness. Lift thy light- 
nings not. 

The tyranny of heaven none may retain. 

Or reassume, or hold, succeeding thee; 

Yet if thou wilt, as 't is the destiny 

Of trodden worms to writhe till they are 
dead, 60 

Put forth thy might. 

JUPITER 

Detested prodigy ! 
Even thus beneath the deep Titanian 

prisons 
I trample thee ! Thou lingerest ? 

Mercy ! mercy ! 
No pity, no release, no respite ! Oh, 
That thou wouldst make mine enemy my 

judge. 
Even where he hangs, seared by my long 

revenge. 
On Caucasus ! he would not doom me 

thus. 
Gentle, and just, and dreadless, is he not 
The monarch of the world ? What then 

art thou ? 69 

No refuge ! no appeal ! 

Sink with me then. 
We two will sink on the wide waves of 

ruin. 
Even as a vulture and a snake outspent 
Drop, twisted in inextricable fight. 
Into a shoreless sea ! Let hell unlock 



Its mounded oceans of tempestuous fire. 
And whelm on them into the bottomless 

void 
This desolated world, and thee, and me, 
The conqueror and the conquered, and the 

wreck 
Of that for which they combated ! 

Ai, Ai ! 
The elements obey rne not. I sink 80 

Dizzily down, ever, forever, down. 
And, like a cloud, mine enemy above 
Darkens my fall with victory ! Ai, Ai ! 



ScEKE II. — The Mouth of a great River in the 
Island Atlantis. Ocean is discovered reclin- 
ing near the shore; Apollo stands beside 
him. 

OCEAN 

He fell, thou sayest, beneath his conquer- 
or's frown ? 

APOLLO 

Ay, when the strife was ended which made 

dim 
The orb I rule, and shook the solid stars, 
The terrors of his eye illumined heaven 
With sanguine light, through the thick 

ragged skirts 
Of the victorious darkness, as he fell; 
Like the last glare of day's red agony, 
Which, from a rent among the fiery clouds, 
Burns far along the tempest-wrinkled deep. 

OCEAN 

He sunk to the abyss ? to the dark 
void ? 10 

APOLLO 

An eagle so caught in some bursting cloud 
On Caucasus, his thunder-baffled wings 
Entangled in the whirlwind, and his eyes. 
Which gazed on the undazzling sun, now 

blinded 
By the white lightning, while the ponder- 
ous hail 
Beats on his struggling form, which sinks 

at length 
Prone, and the aerial ice clings over it. 

OCEAN 

Henceforth the fields of Heaven-reflecting 

sea 
Which are my realm, will heave, unstained 

with blood. 



ACT III : SC. Ill 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



191 



Beneath the uplifting winds, like plains of 

corn 20 

Swayed by the summer air; my streams 

will flow 
Round many-peopled continents, and round 
Fortunate isles; and from their glassy 

thrones 
Blue Proteus and his humid nymphs shall 

mark 
The shadow of fair ships, as mortals see 
The floating bark of the light-laden moon 
With that white star, its sightless pilot's 

crest. 
Borne down the rapid sunset's ebbing sea ; 
Tracking their path no more by blood and 

groans. 
And desolation, and the mingled voice 30 
Of slavery and command; but by the light 
Of wave-reflected flowers, and floating 

odors, 
And music soft, and mild, free, gentle 

voices. 
That sweetest music, such as spirits love. 

APOLIiO 

And I shall gaze not on the deeds which 

make 
My mind obscure with sorrow, as eclipse 
Darkens the sphere I guide. But list, I hear 
The small, clear, silver lute of the young 

Spirit 
That sits i' the morning star. 

OCEAN 

Thou must away ; 

Thy steeds will pause at even, till when 
farewell. 40 

The loud deep calls me home even now to 
feed it 

With azure calm out of the emerald urns 

Which stand forever full beside my throne. 

Behold the Nereids under the green sea, 

Their wavering limbs borne on the wind- 
like stream, 

Their white arms lifted o'er their stream- 
ing hair, 

With garlands pied and starry sea-flower 
crowns, 

Hastening to grace their mighty sister's joy. 
[A sound of waves is heard. 

It is the unpastured sea hungering for calm. 

Peace, monster; I come now. Farewell. 



APOLLO 



Farewell. 50 



Scene III. — Caucasus. Prometheus, Her- 
cules, loNE, the Earth, Spirits, Asia, and 
Panthea, borne in the Car with the Spirit 
OF THE Hour. Hercules unbinds Pro- 
metheus, who descends. 

HERCULES 

Most glorious among spirits ! thus doth 

strength 
To wisdom, courage, and long-suffering 

love, 
And thee, who art the form they animate, 
Minister like a slave. 

PROMETHEUS 

Thy gentle words 
Are sweeter even than freedom long de- 
sired 
And long delayed. 

Asia, thou light of life, 
Shadow of beauty uubeheld; and ye. 
Fair sister nymphs, who made long years 

of pain 
Sweet to remember, through your love and 

care; 
Henceforth we will not part. There is a 

cave, 10 

All overgrown with trailing odorous plants, 
Which curtain out the day with leaves and 

flowers, 
And paved with veined emerald; and a 

fountain 
Leaps in the midst with an awakening 

sound. 
From its curved roof the mountain's frozen 

tears. 
Like snow, or silver, or long diamond spires, 
Hang downward, raining forth a doubtful 

light; 
And there is heard the ever-moving air 
Whispering without from tree to tree, and 

birds. 
And bees; and all around are mossy 

seats, 20 

And the rough walls are clothed with long 

soft grass; 
A simple dwelling, which shall be our 

own ; 
Where we will sit and talk of time and 

change. 
As the world ebbs and flows, ourselves un- 
changed. 
What can hide man from mutability ? 
And if ye sigh, then I will smile; and thou, 



192 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT III'. SC. Ill 



lone, shalt chant fragments of sea-music, 
Until I weep, when ye shall smile away 
The tears she brought, which yet were 

sweet to shed. 
We will entangle buds and flowers and 

beams 30 

Which twinkle on the fountain's brim, and 

make 
Strange combinations out of common 

things. 
Like human babes in their brief innocence ; 
And we will search, with looks and words 

of love. 
For hidden thoughts, each lovelier than the 

last. 
Our unexhausted spirits; and, like lutes 
Touched by the skill of the enamoured wind, 
Weave harmonies divine, yet ever new. 
From difference sweet where discord can- 
not be; 
And hither come, sped on the charmM 

winds, 40 

Which meet from all the points of heaven 

— as bees 
From every flower aerial Enna feeds 
At their known island-homes in Himera — 
The echoes of the human world, which 

tell 
Of the low voice of love, almost unheard, 
And dove-eyed pity's murmured pain, and 

music. 
Itself the echo of the heart, and all 
That tempers or improves man's life, now 

free; 
And lovely apparitions, — dim at first. 
Then radiant, as the mind arising bright 50 
From the embrace of beauty (whence the 

forms 
Of which these are the phantoms) casts on 

them 
The gathered rays which are reality — 
Shall visit us, the progeny immortal 
Of Painting, Sculpture, and rapt Poesy, 
And arts, though unimagined, yet to be; 
The wandering voices and the shadows 

these 
Of all that man becomes, the mediators 
Of that best worship, love, by him and us 
Given and returned; swift shapes and 

sounds, which grow 60 

More fair and soft as man grows wise and 

kind. 
And, veil by veil, evil and error fall. 
Such virtue has the cave and place around. 
[Turning to the Spirit of the Hour. 



For thee, fair Spirit, one toil remains. 

lone. 
Give her that curved shell, which Proteus 

old 
Made Asia's nuptial boon, breathing within 

it 
A voice to be accomplished, and which thou 
Didst hide in grass under the hollow rock. 

lONE 

Thou most desired Hour, more loved and 

lovely 
Than all thy sisters, this is the mystic 

shell. 70 

See the pale azure fading into silver 
Lining it with a soft yet glowing light. 
Looks it not like lulled music sleeping 

there ? 

SPIRIT 

It seems in truth the fairest shell of Ocean: 
Its sound must be at once both sweet and 
strange. 

PROMETHEUS 

Go, borne over the cities of mankind 
On whirlwind-footed coursers; once again 
Outspeed the sun around the orb^d world ; 
And as thy chariot cleaves the kindling air, 
Thou breathe into the many-folded shell. 
Loosening its mighty music; it shall be 81 
As thunder mingled withclear echoes; then 
Return; and thou shalt dwell beside our 
cave. 

And thou, O Mother Earth ! — 

THE EARTH 

I hear, I feel; 
Thy lips are on me, and thy touch runs 

down 
Even to the adamantine central gloom 
Along these marble nerves; 'tis life, 'tis 

joy, 

And, through my withered, old, and icy 
frame 

The warmth of an immortal youth shoots 
down 

Circling. Henceforth the many children 
fair 90 

Folded in my sustaining arms; all plants. 

And creeping forms, and insects rainbow- 
winged, 

And birds, and beasts, and fish, and human 
shapes, 



ACT III : SC. Ill 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



193 



Which drew disease and pain from my 

wan bosom, 
Draining the poison of despair, shall take 
And interchange sweet nutriment; to me 
Shall they become like sister-antelopes 
By one fair dam, snow-white, and swift as 

wind, 
Nursed among lilies near a brimming 

stream. 
The dew-mists of my sunless sleep shall 

float 100 

Under the stars like balm; night-folded 

flowers 
Shall suck un withering hues in their repose; 
And men and beasts in happy dreams shall 

gather 
Strength for the coming day, and all its 

joy; 

And death shall be the last embrace of her 
Who takes the life she gave, even as a mo- 
ther, 
Folding her child, says, 'Leave me not 
again.' 

ASIA 

Oh, mother ! wherefore speak the name of 

death ? 
Cease they to love, and move, and breathe, 

and speak. 
Who die ? 

THE EARTH 

It would avail not to reply; no 
Thou art immortal and this tongue is known 
But to the uncoramunicating dead. 
Death is the veil which those who live call 

life; 
They sleep, and it is lifted; and meanwhile 
In mild variety the seasons mild 
With rainbow-skirted showers, and odorous 

winds, 
And long blue meteors cleansing the dull 

night. 
And the life-kindling shafts of the keen 

sun's 
All-piercing bow, and the dew-mingled rain 
Of the calm moonbeams, a soft influence 

mild, 120 

Shall clothe the forests and the fields, ay, 

even 
The crag-built deserts of the barren deep, 
With ever-living leaves, and fruits, and 

flowers. 
And thou ! there is a cavern where my 

spirit 



Was panted forth in anguish whilst thy 

pain 
Made my heart mad, and those who did 

inhale it 
Became mad too, and built a temple there, 
And spoke, and were oracular, and lured 
The erring nations round to mutual war, 
And faithless faith, such as Jove kept with 

thee ; 130 

Which breath now rises as amongst tall 

weeds 
A violet's exhalation, and it fills 
With a serener light and crimson air 
Intense, yet soft, the rocks and woods 

around; 
It feeds the quick growth of the serpent 

vine. 
And the dark linked ivy tangling wild, 
And budding, blown, or odor-faded blooms 
Which star the winds with points of col- 
ored light 
As they rain through them, and bright 

golden globes 
Of fruit suspended in their own green hea- 



ven, 



140 



And through their veined leaves and amber 

stems 
The flowers whose purple and translucid 

bowls 
Stand ever mantling with aerial dew, 
The drink of spirits; and it circles round, 
Like the soft waving wings of noonday 

dreams. 
Inspiring calm and happy thoughts, like 

mine. 
Now thou art thus restored. This cave is 

thine. 
Arise ! Appear ! 

[A Spirit rises in the likeness of a winged 
child. 

This is my torch-bearer; 
Who let his lamp out in old time with gazing 
On eyes from which he kindled it anew 150 
With love, which is as fire, sweet daughter 

mine. 
For such is that within thine own. Run, 

wayward, 
And guide this company beyond the peak 
Of Bacchic Nysa, Maenad-haunted moun- 
tain, 
And beyond Indus and its tribute rivers, 
Trampling the torrent streams and glassy 

lakes 
With feet unwet, unwearied, undelaying, 
And up the green ravine, across the vale, 



194 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT III: SC. IV 



Beside the windless and crystalline pool, 
Where ever lies, on unerasing waves, i6o 
The image of a temple, built above, 
Distinct with column, arch, and architrave, 
And palm-like capital, and overwrought. 
And populous most with living imagery, 
Praxitelean shapes, whose marble smiles 
Fill the hushed air with everlasting love. 
It is deserted now, but once it bore 
Thy name, Prometheus; there the emulpus 

youths 
Bore to thy honor through the divine 

gloom 
The lamp which was thine emblem; even 
as those 170 

Who bear the untransmitted torch of hope 
Into the grave, across the night of life, 
As thou hast borne it most triumphantly 
To this far goal of Time. Depart, fare- 
well ! 
Beside that temple is the destined cave. 



Scene IV. — A Forest. In the background a 
Cave. Prometheus, Asia, Panthea, Ione, 
and the Spirit of the Earth. 

IONE 

Sister, it is not earthly; how it glides 
Under the leaves ! how on its head there 

burns 
A light, like a green star, whose emerald 

beams 
Are twined with its fair hair ! how, as it 

moves. 
The splendor drops in flakes upon the 

grass ! 
Knowest thou it ? 

panthea 

It is the delicate spirit 
That guides the earth through heaven. 

From afar 
The populous constellations call that light 
The loveliest of the planets; and sometimes 
It floats along the spray of the salt sea, 10 
Or makes its chariot of a foggy cloud. 
Or walks through fields or cities while men 

sleep, 
Or o'er the mountain tops, or down the 

rivers, 
Or through the green waste wilderness, as 

now. 
Wondering at all it sees. Before Jove 

reigned 
It loved our sister Asia, and it came 



Each leisure hour to drink the liquid light 
Out of her eyes, for which it said it thirsted 
As one bit by a dipsas, and with her 
It made its childish confidence, and told 

her 20 

All it had known or seen, for it saw much. 
Yet idly reasoned what it saw; and called 

her. 
For whence it sprung it knew not, nor 

do I, 
Mother, dear mother. 

the spirit of the earth, running to AsiA 
Mother, dearest mother ! 
May I then talk with thee as I was wont ? 
May I then hide my eyes in thy soft arms, 
After thy looks have made them tired of 

joy? 

May I then play beside thee the long 

noons. 
When work is none in the bright silent 

air ? 29 

ASIA 

I love thee, gentlest being, and henceforth 
Can cherish thee unenvied. Speak, I 

pr?y; 
Thy simple talk once solaced, now de- 
lights. 

SPIRIT OF THE EARTH 

Mother, I am grown wiser, though a child 
Cannot be wise like thee, within this day; 
And happier too; happier and wiser both. 
Thou knowest that toads, and snakes, and 

loathly worms. 
And venomous and malicious beasts, and 

boughs 
That bore ill berries in the woods, were 

ever 
An hindrance to my walks o'er the green 

world; 
And that, among the haunts of human- 
kind, 40 
Hard-featured men, or with proud, angry 

looks. 
Or cold, staid gait, or false and hollow 

smiles, 
Or the dull sneer of self-loved ignorance. 
Or other such foul masks, with which ill 

thoughts 
Hide that fair being whom we spirits call 

man; 
And women too, ugliest of all things evil, 
(Though fair, even in a world where thou 

art fair, 



ACT III : SC. IV 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



195 



When good and kind, free and sincere like 

thee) 
When false or frowning made me sick at 

heart 
To pass them, though they slept, and I un- 
seen. 50 
Well, my path lately lay through a great 

city 
Into the woody hills surrounding it; 
A sentinel was sleeping at the gate; 
When there was heard a sound, so loud, it 

shook 
The towers amid the moonlight, yet more 

sweet 
Than any voice but thine, sweetest of all; 
A long, long sound, as it would never end; 
And all the inhabitants leapt suddenly 
Out of their rest, and gathered in the 

streets, 
Looking in wonder up to Heaven, while 

yet 60 

The music pealed along. I hid myself 
Within a fountain in the public square. 
Where I lay like the reflex of the moon 
Seen in a wave under green leaves; and 

soon 
Those ugly human shapes and visages 
Of which I spoke as having wrought me 

pain. 
Passed floating through the air, and fading 

still 
Into the winds that scattered them; and 

those 
From whom they passed seemed mild and 

lovely forms 
After some foul disguise had fallen, and 

all 70 

Were somewhat changed, and after brief 

surprise 
And greetings of delighted wonder, all 
Went to their sleep again; and when the 

dawn 
Came, wouldst thou think that toads, and 

snakes, and efts, 
Could e'er be beautiful ? yet so they were. 
And that with little change of shape or 

hue; 
All things had put their evil nature off; 
I cannot tell my joy, when o'er a lake, 
Upon a drooping bough with nightshade 

twined, 
I saw two azure halcyons clinging down- 
ward 80 
And thinning one bright bunch of amber 

berries, 



With quick long beaks, and in the deep 

there lay 
Those lovely forms imaged as in a sky; 
So with my thoughts full of these happy 

changes. 
We meet again, the happiest change of all. 

ASIA 

And never will we part, till thy chaste 

sister. 
Who guides the frozen and inconstant 

moon. 
Will look on thy more warm and equal 

light 
Till her heart thaw like flakes of April 

snow, 89 

And love thee. 

SPIRIT OF THE EARTH 

What ! as Asia loves Prometheus ? 

ASIA 

Peace, wanton ! thou art yet not old 

enough. 
Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes 
To multiply your lovely selves, and fill 
With sphered fires the interlunar air ? 

SPIRIT OF THE EARTH 

Nay, mother, while my sister trims her 

lamp 
'T is hard I should go darkling. 

ASIA 

Listen; look ! 
The Spirit of the Hour enters 

PROMETHEUS 

We feel what thou hast heard and seen; 
yet speak. 

spirit of the HOUR 

Soon as the sound had ceased whose thunder 

filled 
The abysses of the sky and the wide earth. 
There was a change; the impalpable thin 
air 100 

And the all-circling sunlight were trans- 
formed. 
As if the sense of love, dissolved in them, 
Had folded itself round the sphered world. 
My vision then grew clear, and I could see 
Into the mysteries of the universe. 
Dizzy as with delight I floated down; 



196 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT III : SC. IV 



Winnowing the lightsome air with languid 

plumes, 
My coursers sought their birthplace in the 

sun, 
Where they henceforth will live exempt 

from toil, 
Pasturing flowers of vegetable fire, no 

And where my moonlike car will stand 

within 
A temple, gazed upon by Phidian forms 
Of thee, and Asia, and the Earth, and me, 
And you, fair nymphs, looking the love we 

feel, — 
In memory of the tidings it has borne, — 
Beneath a dome fretted with graven 

flowers. 
Poised on twelve columns of resplendent 

stone. 
And open to the bright and liquid sky. 
Yoked to it by an amphisbenic snake 
The likeness of those winged steeds will 

mock 120 

The flight from which they find repose. 

Alas, 
Whither has wandered now my partial 

tongue 
When all remains untold which ye would 

hear ? 
As I have said, I floated to the earth; 
It was, as it is still, the pain of bliss 
To move, to breathe, to be. I wandering 

went 
Among the haunts and dwellings of man- 
kind. 
And first was disappointed not to see 
Such mighty change as I had felt within 
Expressed in outward things; but soon I 

looked, 130 

And behold, thrones were kingless, and men 

walked 
One with the other even as spirits do — 
None fawned, none trampled; hate, dis- 
dain, or fear. 
Self-love or self-contempt, on human brows 
No more inscribed, as o'er the gate of hell, 
* All hope abandon, ye who enter here.' 
None frowned, none trembled, none with 

eager fear 
Gazed on another's eye of cold command. 
Until the subject of a tyrant's will 139 

Became, worse fate, the abject of his own. 
Which spurred him, like an outspent horse, 

to death. 
None wrought his lips in truth-entangling 
lines 



Which smiled the lie his tongue disdained 

to speak. 
None, with firm sneer, trod out in his own 

heart 
The sparks of love and hope till there re- 
mained 
Those bitter ashes, a soul self-consumed, 
And the wretch crept a vampire among 

men. 
Infecting all with his own hideous ill. 
None talked that common, false, cold, hol- 
low talk 
Which makes the heart deny the yes it 

breathes, 150 

Yet question that unmeant hypocrisy 
With such a self-mistrust as has no name. 
And women, too, frank, beautiful, and kind. 
As the free heaven which rains fresh light 

and dew 
On the wide earth, passed; gentle, radiant 

forms, 
From custom's evil taint exempt and pure; 
Speaking the wisdom once they could not 

think. 
Looking emotions once they feared to feel. 
And changed to all which once they dared 

not be. 
Yet being now, made earth like heaven; 

nor pride, 160 

Nor jealousy, nor envy, nor ill shame, 
The bitterest of those drops of treasured 

gall, 
Spoiled the sweet taste of the nepenthe, 

love. 

Thrones, altars, judgment-seats, and pris- 
ons, wherein, 
And beside which, by wretched men were 

borne 
Sceptres, tiaras, swords, and chains, and 

tomes 
Of reasoned wrong, glozed on by ignorance, 
Were like those monstrous and barbaric 

shapes. 
The ghosts of a no-more-remembered fame 
Which from their unworn obelisks, look 
forth 170 

In triumph o'er the palaces and tombs 
Of those who were their conquerors ; mould- 
ering round. 
Those imaged to the pride of kings and 

priests 
A dark yet mighty faith, a power as wide 
As is the world it wasted, and are now 
But an astonishment; even so the tools 



ACT IV 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



197 



And emblems of its last captivity, 
Amid the dwellings of the peopled earth, 
Stand, not o'erthrown, but unregarded now. 
And those foul shapes, — abhorred by god 
and man, 180 

Which, under many a name and many a 

form 
Strange, savage, ghastly, dark, and ex- 
ecrable. 
Were Jupiter, the tyrant of the world. 
And which the nations, panic-stricken, 

served 
With blood, and hearts broken by long 

hope, and love 
Dragged to his altars soiled and garland- 
less. 
And slain among men's unreclaiming tears, 
Flattering the thing they feared, which fear 

was hate, — 
Frown, mouldering fast, o'er their aban- 
doned shrines. 
The painted veil, by those who were, called 
life, 190 

Which mimicked, as with colors idly spread. 
All men believed and hoped, is torn aside; 
The loathsome mask has fallen, the man 

remains 
Sceptreless, free, uncircumscribed, but man 
Equal, unclassed, tribeless, and nationless. 
Exempt from awe, worship, degree, the 

king 
Over himself; just, gentle, wise; but man 
Passionless — no, yet free from guilt or pain. 
Which were, for his will made or suffered 

them; 
Nor yet exempt, though ruling them like 
slaves, 200 

From chance, and death, and mutability, 
The clogs of that which else might over- 
soar 
The loftiest star of unascended heaven. 
Pinnacled dim in the intense inane. 



ACT IV 

Scene — A part of the Forest near the Cave 
of Prometheus. Panthea and Ione are 
sleeping : they awaken gradually during the 
first Song. 

VOICE OF unseen SPIRITS 

The pale stars are gone ! 
For the sun, their swift shepherd 
To their folds them compelling, 
In the depths of the dawn, 



Hastes, in meteor-eclipsing array, and they 

flee 
Beyond his blue dwelling. 
As fawns flee the leopard. 

But where are ye ? 

A Train of dark Forms and Shadows passes by 
confusedly, singing. 

Here, oh, here ! 

We bear the bier iq 

Of the father of many a cancelled year ! 

Spectres we 

Of the dead Hours be; 
We bear Time to his tomb in eternityo 

Strew, oh, strew 

Hair, not yew ! 
Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew I 

Be the faded flowers 

Of Death's bare bowers 
Spread on the corpse of the King of 
Hours ! 20 

Haste, oh, haste ! 

As shades are chased, 
Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue 
waste. 

We melt away. 

Like dissolving spray. 
From the children of a diviner day. 

With the lullaby 

Of winds that die 
On the bosom of their own harmony ! 



tone 
What dark forms were they ? 



3« 



PANTHEA 



The past Hours weak and gray, 
With the spoil which their toil 

Baked together 
From the conquest but One could foil. 

IONE 

Have they passed ? 

PANTHEA 

They have passedj 
They outspeeded the blast, 
While 't is said, they are fled I 

IONE 

Whither, oh, whither ? 

PANTHSA 

To the dark, to the past, to the dead* 



198 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT IV 



VOICE OF UNSEEN SPIRITS 

Bright clouds float in heaven, 40 

Dew-stars gleam on earth, 
Waves assemble on ocean. 
They are gathered and driven 
By the storm of delight, by the panic of 

glee ! 
They shake with emotion, 
They dance in their mirth. 

But where are ye ? 

The pine boughs are singing 
Old songs with new gladness. 
The billows and fountains 50 

Fresh music are flinging, 
Like the notes of a spirit from land and 

from sea; 
The storms mock the mountains 
With the thunder of gladness, 

But where are ye ? 

lONE 

What charioteers are these ? 

PANTHEA 

Where are their chariots ? 

SEMICHORUS OF HOURS 

The voice of the Spirits of Air and of 
Earth 
Has drawn back the figured curtain of 
sleep. 
Which covered our being and darkened 
our birth 59 

In the deep. 

A VOICE 

In the deep ? 

SEMICHORUS II 

Oh ! below the deep. 

SEMICHORUS I 

An hundred ages we had been kept 
Cradled in visions of hate and care. 

And each one who waked as his brother 
slept 
Found the truth — 

SEMICHORUS n 

Worse than his visions were ! 

SEMICHORUS I 

We have heard the lute of Hope in sleep; 



We have known the voice of Love in 
dreams ; 
We have felt the wand of Power, and 
leap — 

SEMICHORUS II 

As the billows leap in the morning beams ! 

CHORUS 

Weave the dance on the floor of the breeze, 
Pierce with song heaven's silent light, 70 

Enchant the day that too swiftly flees, 
To check its flight ere the cave of night. 

Once the hungry Hours were hounds 

Which chased the day like a bleeding 
deer. 
And it limped and stumbled with many 
wounds 
Through the nightly dells of the desert 
year. 

But now, oh, weave the mystic measure 
Of music, and dance, and shapes of light. 

Let the Hours, and the Spirits of might 
and pleasure, 79 

Like the clouds and sunbeams, unite — 



A VOICE 



PANTHEA 



Unite ! 



See, where the Spirits of the human mind. 
Wrapped in sweet sounds, as in bright veils, 
approach. 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS 

We join the throng 

Of the dance and the song, 
By the whirlwind of gladness borne along; 

As the flying-fish leap 

From the Indian deep 
And mix with the sea-birds half-asleep. 

CHORUS OF HOURS 

Whence come ye, so wild and so fleet, 8c, 
For sandals of lightning are on your feet. 
And your wings are soft and swift as 

thought, 
And your eyes are as love which is veiled 

not? 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS 

We come from the mind 
Of humankind. 



ACT IV 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



199 



Which was late so dusk, and obscene, and 
blind ; 

Now 't is an ocean 

Of clear emotion, 
A heaven of serene and mighty motion. 

From that deep abyss 

Of wonder and bliss, 100 

Whose caverns are crystal palaces; 

From those skyey towers 

Where Thought's crowned powers 
Sit watching your dance, ye happy Hours ! 

From the dim recesses 

Of woven caresses, 
Where lovers catch ye by your loose tresses; 

From the azure isles. 

Where sweet Wisdom smiles, 109 
Delaying your ships with her siren wiles. 

From the temples high 

Of Man's ear and eye, 
Roofed over Sculpture and Poesy ; 

From the murmurings 

Of the unsealed springs, 
Where Science bedews his daedal wings. 

Years after years. 
Through blood, and tears, 
And a thick hell of hatreds, and hopes, and 
fears, 
We waded and flew, 120 

And the islets were few 
Where the bud-blighted flowers of happi- 
ness grew. 

Our feet now, every palm. 

Are sandalled with calm. 
And the dew of our wings is a rain of 
balm; 

And, beyond our eyes. 

The human love lies, 
Which makes all it gazes on Paradise. 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS AND HOURS 

Then weave the web of the mystic mea- 
sure; 
From the depths of the sky and the ends 
of the earth, 130 

Come, swift Spirits of might and of plea- 
sure, 
Fill the dance and the music of mirth, 
As the waves of a thousand streams rush 

by 

To an ocean of splendor and harmony ! 



CHORUS OF SPIRITS 

Our spoil is won. 

Our task is done, 
We are free to dive, or soar, or run; 

Beyond and around, 

Or within the bound 139 

Which clips the world with darkness round. 

We '11 pass the eyes 

Of the starry skies 
Into the hoar deep to colonize; 

Death, Chaos and Night, 

From the sound of our flight. 
Shall flee, like mist from a tempest's might. 

And Earth, Air and Light, 

And the Spirit of Might, 
Which drives round the stars in their fiery 
flight; 

And Love, Thought and Breath, 150 

The powers that quell Death, 
Wherever we soar shall assemble beneath. 

And our singing shall build 

In the void's loose field 
A world for the Spirit of Wisdom to wield; 

We will take our plan 

From the new world of man. 
And our work shall be called the Prome- 
thean. 

CHORUS OF HOURS 

Break the dance, and scatter the song; 
Let some depart, and some remain; 160 

SEMICHORUS I 

We, beyond heaven, are driven along; 

SEMICHORUS n 

Us the enchantments of earth retain; 

SEMICHORUS I 

Ceaseless, and rapid, and fierce, and free. 
With the Spirits which build a new earth 

and sea. 
And a heaven where yet heaven could never 

be; 

SEMICHORUS II 

Solemn, and slow, and serene, and bright. 
Leading the Day, and outspeeding the 

Night, 
With the powers of a world of perfect 

light; 



200 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT IV 



SEMICHORUS I 

We whirl, singing loud, round the gather- 
ing sphere, 

Till the trees, and the beasts, and the clouds 
appear 170 

From its chaos made calm by love, not 
fear; 

SEMICHORUS II 

We encircle the ocean and mountains of 

earth, 
And the happy forms of its death and birth 
Change to the music of our sweet mirth. 

CHORUS OF HOURS AND SPIRITS 

Break the dance, and scatter the song; 

Let some depart, and some remain; 
Wherever we fly we lead along 
In leashes, like star-beams, soft yet strong, 

The clouds that are heavy with love's 
sweet rain. 179 

PANTHEA 

Ha ! they are gone ! 

lONE 

Yet feel you no delight 
From the past sweetness ? 

PANTHEA 

As the bare green hill. 
When some soft cloud vanishes into rain. 
Laughs with a thousand drops of sunny 

water 
To the unpavilioned sky ! 

lONB 

Even whilst we speak 
New notes arise. What is that awful 
sound ? 

PANTHEA 

'T is the deep music of the rolling world. 
Kindling within the strings of the waved 

air 
iEolian modulations. 

lONE 

Listen too, 
How every pause is filled with under-notes. 
Clear, silver, icy, keen awakening tones, 
Which pierce the sense, and live within the 

soul, 191 

As the sharp stars pierce winter's crystal 

air 
And gaze upon themselves within the soa. 



PANTHEA 

But see where, through two openings in 

the forest 
Which hanging branches overcanopy, 
And where two runnels of a rivulet. 
Between the close moss violet-inwoven, 
Have made their path of melody, like sis- 
ters 
Who part with sighs that they may meet 

in smiles. 
Turning their dear disunion to an isle 200 
Of lovely grief, a wood of sweet sad 

thoughts; 
Two visions of strange radiance float upon 
The ocean-like enchantment of strong 

sound. 
Which flows intenser, keener, deeper yet, 
Under the ground and through the wind- 
less air. 

lONE 

I see a chariot like that thinnest boat 
In which the mother of the months is borne 
By ebbing night into her western cave. 
When she upsprings from interlunar 

dreams ; 209 

O'er which is curved an orb-like canopy 
Of gentle darkness, and the hills and woods. 
Distinctly seen through that dusk airy veil, 
Regard like shapes in an enchanter's glass; 
Its wheels are solid clouds, azure and gold, 
Such as the genii of the thunder-storm 
Pile on the floor of the illumined sea 
When the sun rushes under it; they roll 
And move and grow as with an inward 

wind; 
Within it sits a winged infant — white 
Its countenance, like the whiteness of bright 

snow, 220 

Its plumes are as feathers of sunny frost, 
Its limbs gleam white, through the wind- 
flowing folds 
Of its white robe, woof of ethereal pearl, 
Its hair is white, the brightness of white 

light 
Scattered in strings; yet its two eyes are 

heavens 
Of liquid darkness, which the Deity 
Within seems pouring, as a storm is poured 
From jagged clouds, out of their arrowy 

lashes, 
Tempering the cold and radiant air around 
With fire that is not brightness; in its hand 
It sways a quivering moonbeam, from whose 

point 23 1 



ACT IV 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



201 



A guiding power directs the chariot's prow 
Over its wheeled clouds, which as they roll 
Over the grass, and flowers, and waves, 

wake sounds, 
Sweet as a singing rain of silver dew. 

PANTHEA 

And from the other opening in the wood 
Rushes, with loud and whirlwind harmony, 
A sphere, which is as many thousand 

spheres; 
Solid as crystal, yet through all its mass 
Flow, as through empty space, music and 

light; 240 

Ten thousand orbs involving and involved, 
Purple and azure, white, green and golden. 
Sphere within sphere; and every space 

between 
Peopled with unimaginable shapes, 
Such as ghosts dream dwell in the lampless 

deep ; 
Yet each inter-transpicuous ; and they whirl 
Over each other with a thousand motions, 
Upon a thousand sightless axles spinning, 
And with the force of self -destroying swift- 
ness. 
Intensely, slowly, solemnly, roll on, 250 

Kindling with mingled sounds, and many 

tones. 
Intelligible words and music wild. 
With mighty whirl the multitudinous orb 
Grinds the bright brook into an azure mist 
Of elemental subtlety, like light; 
And the wild odor of the forest flowers. 
The music of the living grass and air. 
The emerald light of leaf-entangled beams. 
Round its intense yet self-conflicting speed 
Seem kneaded into one aerial mass 260 

Which drowns the sense. Within the orb 

itself. 
Pillowed upon its alabaster arms. 
Like to a child o'erwearied with sweet toil. 
On its own folded wings and wavy hair 
The Spirit of the Earth is laid asleep. 
And you can see its little lips are moving, 
Amid the changing light of their own smiles. 
Like one who talks of what he loves in 

dream. 

lOKE 

'T is only mocking the orb's harmony. 

PANTHEA 

And from a star upon its forehead shoot, 270 
Like swords of azure fire or golden spears 



With tyrant-quelling myrtle overtwined, 
Embleming heaven and earth united now, 
Vast beams like spokes of some invisible 

wheel 
Which whirl as the orb whirls, swifter than 

thought, 
Filling the abyss with sun-like lightnings, 
And perpendicular now, and now transverse. 
Pierce the dark soil, and as they pierce and 

pass 
Make bare the secrets of the earth's deep 

heart ; 
Infinite mine of adamant and gold, 280 

Valueless stones, and unimagined gems, 
And caverns on crystalline columns poised 
With vegetable silver overspread; 
Wells of unfathomed fire, and water-springs 
Whence the great sea even as a child is fed. 
Whose vapors clothe earth's monarch 

mountain-tops 
With kingly, ermine snow. The beams 

flash on 
And make appear the melancholy ruins 
Of cancelled cycles; anchors, beaks of 

ships; 
Planks turned to marble; quivers, helms, 

and spears, 290 

And gorgon-headed targes, and the wheels 
Of scythed chariots, and the emblazonrj'^ 
Of trophies, standards, and armorial beasts. 
Round which death laughed, sepulchred 

emblems 
Of dead destruction, ruin within ruin ! 
The wrecks beside of many a city vast. 
Whose population which the earth grew 

over 
Was mortal, but not human; see, they lie. 
Their monstrous works, and uncouth skele- 
tons. 
Their statues, homes and fanes; prodigious 

shapes 300 

Huddled in gray annihilation, split. 
Jammed in the hard, black deep; and over 

these. 
The anatomies of unknown winged things, 
And fishes which were isles of living scale. 
And serpents, bony chains, twisted around 
The iron crags, or within heaps of dust 
To which the tortuous strength of their last 

pangs 
Had crushed the iron crags; and over these 
The jagged alligator, and the might 309 
Of earth-convulsing behemoth, which once 
Were monarch beasts, and on the slimy 

shores, 



202 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT IV 



And weed-overgrown continents of earth, 
Increased and multiplied like summer 

worms 
On an abandoned corpse, till the blue globe 
Wrapped deluge round it like a cloke, and 

they 
Yelled, gasped, and were abolished; or 

some God, 
Whose throne was in a comet, passed, and 

cried, 
Be not ! and like my words they were no 

more. 

THE EARTH 

The joy, the triumph, the delight, the mad- 
ness ! 

The boundless, overflowing, bursting glad- 
ness, 320 

The vaporous exultation not to be confined ! 
Ha ! ha ! the animation of delight 
Which wraps me, like an atmosphere of 
light. 

And bears me as a cloud is borne by its 
own wind. 

THE MOON 

Brother mine, calm wanderer, 
Happy globe of land and air. 
Some Spirit is darted like a beam from 
thee. 
Which penetrates my frozen frame. 
And passes with the warmth of flame. 
With love, and odor, and deep melody 330 
Through me, through me ! 

THE EARTH 

Ha ! ha ! the caverns of my hollow moun- 
tains. 

My cloven fire-crags, sound-exulting 
fountains. 
Laugh with a vast and inextinguishable 
laughter. 

The oceans, and the deserts, and the 
abysses, 

And the deep air's unmeasured wilder- 
nesses. 
Answer from all their clouds and billows, 
echoing after. 

They cry aloud as I do. Sceptred curse. 
Who all our green and azure universe 
Threatenedst to muffle round with black 
destruction, sending 340 

A solid cloud to rain hot thunder-stones 
And splinter and knead down my chil- 
dren's bones, 



All I bring forth, to one void mass batter- 
ing and blending. 

Until each crag-like tower, and storied 

column. 
Palace, and obelisk, and temple solemn, 
My imperial mountains crowned with cloud, 

and snow, and fire. 
My sea-like forests, every blade and 

blossom 
Which finds a grave or cradle in my 

bosom. 
Were stamped by thy strong hate into a 

lifeless mire: 

How art thou sunk, withdrawn, covered, 
drunk up 350 

By thirsty nothing, as the brackish cup 
Drained by a desert-troop, a little drop for 
all; 
And from beneath, around, within, above, 
Filling thy void annihilation, love 
Bursts in like light on caves cloven by the 
thunder-ball ! 

THE MOON 

The snow upon my lifeless mountains 
Is loosened into living fountains. 

My solid oceans flow, and sing and shine; 
A spirit from my heart bursts forth. 
It clothes with unexpected birth 360 

My cold bare bosom. Oh, it must be thine 
On mine, on mine ! 

Gazing on thee I feel, I know, 
Green stalks burst forth, and bright 
flowers grow. 
And living shapes upon my bosom move ; 
Music is in the sea and air. 
Winged clouds soar here and there 
Dark with the rain new buds are dream- 
ing of: 

'T is love, all love ! 

THE EARTH 

It interpenetrates my granite mass, 370 

Through tangled roots and trodden clay 
doth pass 
Into the utmost leaves and delicatest flow- 
ers; 

Upon the winds, among the clouds 't is 
spread. 

It wakes a life in the forgotten dead, — 
They breathe a spirit up from their obscur- 
est bowers; 



ACT IV 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



203 



And like a storm bursting its cloudy- 
prison 

With thunder, and with whirlwind, has 
arisen 
Out of the lampless caves of unimagined 
being; 

With earthquake shock and swiftness 
making shiver 

Thought's stagnant chaos, unremoved 
forever, 380 

Till hate, and fear, and pain, light-van- 
quished shadows, fleeing. 

Leave Man, who was a many-sided mir- 
ror 

Which could distort to many a shape of 
error 
' This true fair world of things, a sea re- 
flecting love; 

Which over all his kind, as the sun's hea- 
ven 

Gliding o'er ocean, smooth, serene, and 
even. 

Darting from starry depths radiance and 
life doth move: 



I 



¥ 



Leave Man even as a leprous child is 
left. 

Who follows a sick beast to some warm 
cleft 
Of rocks, through which the might of heal- 
ing springs is poured ; 390 

Then when it wanders home with rosy 
smile. 

Unconscious, and its mother fears awhile 
It is a spirit, then weeps on her child re- 
stored : 

Man, oh, not men ! a chain of linked 
thought. 

Of love and might to be divided not. 
Compelling the elements with adamantine 
stress; 

As the sun rules even with a tyrant's 
gaze 

The unquiet republic of the maze 
Of planets, struggling fierce towards hea- 
ven's free wilderness: 

Man, one harmonious soul of many a 

soul, 400 

Whose nature is its own divine control, 
Where all things flow to all, as rivers to the 
sea; 
Familiar acts are beautiful through love ; 



Labor, and pain, and grief, in life's green 
grove 
Sport like tame beasts; none knew how 
gentle they could be ! 

His will, with all mean passions, bad 

delights. 
And selfish cares, its trembling satellites, 
A spirit ill to guide, but mighty to obey. 
Is as a tempest-winged ship, whose helm 
Love rules, through waves which dare 
not overwhelm, 410 

Forcing life's wildest shores to own its sov- 
ereign sway. 

All things confess his strength. Through 

the cold mass 
Of marble and of color his dreams 

pass — 
Bright threads whence mothers weave the 

robes their children wear; 
Language is a perpetual Orphic song, 
Which rules with daedal harmony a 

throng 
Of thoughts and forms, which else senseless 

and shapeless were. 

The lightning is his slave; heaven's ut- 
most deep 

Gives up her stars, and like a flock of 
sheep 
They pass before his eye, are numbered, 
and roll on ! 420 

The tempest is his steed, he strides the 
air; 

And the abyss shouts from her depth 
laid bare, 
' Heaven, hast thou secrets ? Man unveils 
me; I have none.' 

TKK MOON 

The shadow of white death has passed 
From my path in heaven at last, 
A clinging shroud of solid frost and sleep ; 
And through my newly woven bowers, 
Wander happy paramours, 
Less mighty, but as mild as those who 
keep 

Thy vales more deep. 430 

THE EARTH 

As the dissolving warmth of dawn may 

fold 
A half unfrozen dew-globe, green, and 

gold. 



204 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



ACT IV 



And crystalline, till it becomes a winged 
mist, 
And wanders up the vault of the blue 

day, 
Outlives the noon, and on the sun's last 
ray 
Hangs o'er the sea, a fleece of fire and 
amethyst. 

THE MOON 

Thou art folded, thou art lying 
In the light which is undying 
Of thine own joy, and heaven's smile 
divine ; 
All suns and constellations shower 440 
On thee a light, a life, a power. 
Which doth array thy sphere ; thou pour- 
est thine 

On mine, on mine ! 

THE EARTH 

I spin beneath my pyramid of night 
Which points into the heavens, dreaming 

delight, 
Murmuring victorious joy in my enchanted 

sleep; 
As a youth lulled in love-dreams faintly 

sighing, 
Under the shadow of his beauty lying, 
Which round his rest a watch of light and 

warmth doth keep. 

THE MOON 

As in the soft and sweet eclipse, 450 
When soul meets soul on lovers' lips. 
High hearts are calm, and brightest eyes 
are dull; 
So when thy shadow falls on me. 
Then am I mute and still, by thee 
Covered; of thy love. Orb most beautiful. 
Full, oh, too full ! 

Thou art speeding round the sun. 
Brightest world of many a one; 
Green and azure sphere which shinest 
With a light which is divinest 460 

Among all the lamps of Heaven 
To whom life and light is given; 
I, thy crystal paramour, 
Borne beside thee by a power 
Like the polar Paradise, 
Magnet-like, of lovers' eyes; 
I, a most enamoured maiden. 
Whose weak brain is overladen 



With the pleasure of her love, 

Maniac-like around thee move, 47c 

Gazing, an insatiate bride. 

On thy form from every side. 

Like a Maenad round the cup 

Which Agave lifted up 

In the weird Cadmean forest. 

Brother, wheresoe'er thou soarest 

I must hurry, whirl and follow 

Through the heavens wide and hollow. 

Sheltered by the warm embrace 

Of thy soul from hungry space, 48a 

Drinking from thy sense and sight 

Beauty, majesty and might, ^ 

As a lover or a chameleon 

Grows like what it looks upon, 

As a violet's gentle eye 

Gazes on the azure sky 
Until its hue grows like what it beholds, 

As a gray and watery mist 

Glows like solid amethyst 
Athwart the western mountain it en- 
folds, 490 

When the sunset sleeps 
Upon its snow. 

THE EARTH 

And the weak day weeps 
That it should be so. 
O gentle Moon, the voice of thy delight 
Falls on me like thy clear and tender light 
Soothing the seaman borne the summer 
night 
Through isles forever calm; 

gentle Moon, thy crystal accents pierce 
The caverns of my pride's deep universe, 500 
Charming the tiger joy, whose tramplings 

fierce 
Made wounds which need thy balm. 

PANTHEA 

1 rise as from a bath of sparkling water, 
A bath of azure light, among dark rocks. 
Out of the stream of sound. 

lONE 

Ah me ! sweet sister. 
The stream of sound has ebbed away from 

us, 
And you pretend to rise out of its wave. 
Because your words fall like the clear soft 

dew 
Shaken from a bathing wood-nymph's limbc 

and hair. 



\CT JV 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



205 



PANTHEA 

Peace, peace ! a mighty Power, which is as 

darkness, 510 

Is rising out of Earth, and from the sky 
Is showered like night, and from within 

the air 
Bursts, like eclipse which had been gathered 

up 
Into the pores of sunlight; the bright 

visions, 
Wherein the singing Spirits rode and shone. 
Gleam like pale meteors through a watery 

night. 

lONE 

There is a sense of words upon mine ear. 

PANTHEA 

An universal sound like words: Oh, list ! 

DEMOGORGON 

Thou, Earth, calm empire of a happy soul. 
Sphere of divinest shapes and harmo- 
nies, 520 
Beautiful orb ! gathering as thou dost roll 
The love which paves thy path along the 
skies: 

THE EARTH 

I hear: I am as a drop of dew that dies. 

DEMOGORGON 

Thou, Moon, which gazest on the nightly 

Earth 
With wonder, as it gazes upon thee ; 
Whilst each to men, and beasts, and the 

swift birth 
Of birds, is beauty, love, calm, harmony: 

THE MOON 

I hear: I am a leaf shaken by thee. 

DEMOGORGON 

Ye kings of suns and stars, Daemons and 
Gods, 
Ethereal Dominations, who possess 530 
Elysian, windless, fortunate abodes 

Beyond Heaven's constellated wilder- 
ness: 

A VOICE {from above) 
Our great Republic hears: we are blessed, 
and bless. 

DEMOGORGON 

ITe happy dead, whom beams of brightest 
verse 



Are clouds to hide, not colors to portray, 
Whether your nature is that universe 
Which once ye saw and suffered — 

A VOICE FROM BENEATH 

Or, as they 
Whom we have left, we change and pass 
away. 

DEMOGORGON 

Ye elemental Genii, who have homes 

From man's high mind even to the cen- 
tral stone 540 
Of sullen lead; from Heaven's star-fretted 
domes 
To the dull weed some sea-worm battens 
on: 

A CONFUSED VOICE 

We hear: thy words waken Oblivion. 

DEMOGORGON 

Spirits, whose homes are flesh; ye beasts 
and birds, 
Ye worms and fish; ye living leaves and 
buds ; 
Lightning and wind; and ye untamable 
herds. 
Meteors and mists, which throng air's 
solitudes: 

A VOICE 

Thy voice to us is wind among still woods. 

DEMOGORGON 

Man, who wert once a despot and a slave, 
A dupe and a deceiver, a decay, 55c 

A traveller from the cradle to the grave 
Through the dim night of this immortal 
day: 

ALI. 

Speak: thy strong words may never pass 
away. 

DEMOGORGON 

This is the day which down the void abysm 

At the Earth-born's spell yawns for Hea- 
ven's despotism, 
And Conquest is dragged captive through 
the deep; 

Love, from its awful throne of patient 
power 

In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour 
Of dread endurance, from the slippery, 
steep, 



2o6 



THE CENCI 



And narrow verge of crag-like agony, 

springs 560 

And folds over the world its healing wings. 

Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endur- 
ance — 

These are the seals of that most firm assur- 
ance 
Which bars the pit over Destruction's 
strength; 

And if, with infirm hand. Eternity, 

Mother of many acts and hours, should 
free 
The serpent that would clasp her with 
his length, 



These are the spells by which to reassume 
An empire o'er the disentangled doom. 569 

To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite; 

To forgive wrongs darker than death or 
night; 
To defy Power, which seems omnipotent ; 

To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates 

From its own wreck the thing it contem- 
plates; 
Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent; 

This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be 

Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free; 

This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Vic- 
tory ! 



THE CENCI 



A TRAGEDY 



IN FIVE ACTS 



The Cenci was Shelley's first attempt at writ- 
ing drama, a form of composition for which he 
had conceived himself to have no talent. It 
was executed with greater rapidity than any of 
his earlier works, being- beg-iin at Rome by May 
14, and finished at Leg-horn, August 8, 1819, 
though as usual Shelley continued to revise it 
till it left his hands. He printed two hundred 
and fifty copies at an Italian press, and these 
were issued in the spring of 1820, at London, 
as the first edition. A second edition was pub- 
lished the following year. Shelley desired 
that the play should be put upon the stage, 
and had it ofi"ered at Covent Garden by Pea- 
cock, but it was declined on account of the 
subject. He thought it was written in a way 
to make it popular, and that the repulsive ele- 
ment in the story had been eliminated by the 
delicacy of his treatment. His interest in it 
lessened after its refusal by the managers ; but 
their judgment was supported by the unfavor- 
able impression made by it when it was pri- 
vately played for the first time under the 
auspices of the Shelley Society, at London, in 
1886. 

Mrs. Shelley's note, as usual, gives nearly 
all that is essential to the history of the poem 
and of Shelley's interest in it : 

' When in Rome, in 1819, a friend put into 
our hands the old manuscript account of the 
story of The Cenci. We visited the Colonna 
and Doria palaces, where the portraits of Bea- 
trice were to be found ; and her beauty cast 
the reflection of its own grace over her appall- 
ing story. Shelley's imagination became 



strongly excited, and he urged the subject to 
me as one fitted for a tragedy. More than 
ever I felt my incompetence ; but I entreated 
him to write it instead ; and he began and pro- 
ceeded swiftly, urged on by intense sympa- 
thy with the sufferings of the human beings 
whose passions, so long cold in the tomb, he 
revived, and gifted with poetic language. This 
tragedy is the only one of his works that 
he communicated to me during its progress. 
We talked over the arrangement of the scenes 
together. . . . 

' We suffered a severe affliction in Rome by 
the loss of our eldest child, who was of such 
beauty and promise as to cause him deservedly 
to be the idol of our hearts. We left the cap- 
ital of the world, anxious for a time to escape 
a spot associated too intimately with his pre- 
sence and loss. Some friends of ours were 
residing in the neighborhood of Leghorn, and 
we took a small house, Villa Valsovano, about 
half-way between the town and Monte Nero, 
where we remained during the summer. Our 
villa was situated in the midst of a podere; the 
peasants sang as they worked beneath our 
windows, during the heats of a very hot sea- 
son, and at night the water-wheel creaked as 
the process of irrigation went on, and the fire- 
flies flashed from among the myrtle hedges : — 
nature was bright, sunshiny, and cheerful, or 
diversified by storms of a majestic terror, such 
as we had never before witnessed. 

' At the top of the house there was a sort of 
terrace. There is often such in Italy, gener- 
ally roofed. This one was very small, yet not 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



207 



only roofed but glazed ; this Shelley made his 
study ; it looked out on a wide prospect of fer- 
tile country, and commanded a view of the near 
sea. The storms that sometimes varied our 
day showed themselves most picturesquely as 
they were driven across the ocean ; sometimes 
the dark lurid clouds dipped towards the waves, 
and became water spouts, that churned up the 
waters beneath, as they were chased onward, 
and scattered by the tempest. At other times 
the dazzling- sunlight and heat made it almost 
intolerable to every other ; but Shelley basked 
in both, and his health and spirits revived under 
their influence. In this airy cell he wrote the 
principal part of The Cenci. He was making 
a study of Calderon at the time, reading his 
best tragedies with an accomplished lady [Mrs. 
Gisborne] living near us, to whom his letter 
from Leghorn was addressed during the fol- 
lowing year. He admired Calderon, both for 
his poetry and his dramatic genius ; but it 
shows his judgment and originality, that, 
though greatly struck by his first acquaintance 
with the Spanish poet, none of his peculiarities 
crept into the composition of The Cenci ; and 
there is no trace of his new studies, except in 
that passage to which he himself alludes, as 
suggested by one in El Purgatorio de San 
Patricio. 

' Shelley wished The Cenci to be acted. He 
was not a play-goer, being of such fastidious 
taste that he was easily disgusted by the bad 
filling up of the inferior parts. While pre- 
paring for our departure from England, how- 
ever, he saw Miss O'Neil several times ; she 
was then in the zenith of her glory, and Shelley 
was deeply moved by her impersonation of 
several parts, and by the gracef id sweetness, 
the intense pathos, and sublime vehemence of 
passion she displayed. She was often in his 
thoughts as he wrote, and when he had finished, 
he became anxious that his tragedy should be 
acted, and receive the advantage of having 
this accomplished actress to fill the part of the 
heroine. With this view he wrote the follow- 
ing letter to a friend [Peacock, July, 1819] in 
London : — 

' " The object of the present letter is to ask a 
favor of you. I have written a tragedy on the 
subject of a story well known in Italy, and, in 
my conception, eminently dramatic. I have 
taken some pains to make my play fit for re- 
presentation, and those who have already seen 
it judge favorably. It is written without any 
of the peculiar feelings and opinions which 
characterize my other compositions ; I having 
attended simply to the impartial development 
of such characters as it is probable the persons 
represented really were, together with the great- 
est degree of popular efPect to be produced by 
such a development. I send you a translation 



of the Italian MS. on which my play is founded ; 
the chief subject of which I have touched verj 
delicately ; for my principal doubt as to 
whether it would succeed, as an acting play, 
hangs entirely on the question, as to whether 
such a thing as incest in this shape, however 
treated, would be admitted on the stage. I 
think, however, it will form no objection, con- 
sidering, first, that the facts are matter of his- 
tory and, secondly, the peculiar delicacy with 
which I have treated it. 

' " I am exceedingly interested in the ques- 
tion of whether this attempt of mine will suc- 
ceed or no. I am strongly inclined to the 
affirmative at present ; founding my hopes on 
this, that as a composition it is certainly not 
inferior to any of the modern plays that have 
been acted, with the exception of Remorse; 
that the interest of its plot is incredibly greater 
and more real, and that there is nothing beyond 
what the multitude are contented to believe 
that they can understand, either in imagery, 
opinion, or sentiment. I wish to preserve a 
complete incognito, and can trust to you that, 
whatever else you do, you will at least favor 
me on this point. Indeed this is essential, 
deeply essential to its success. After it had 
been acted, and successfully (could I hope such 
a thing), I would own it if I pleased, and use 
the celebrity it might acquire, to my own pur- 
poses. 

' " What I want you to do, is to procure for 
me its presentation at Covent Garden. The 
principal character, Beatrice, is precisely fitted 
for Miss O'Neil, and it might even seem 
written for her, (God forbid that I should ever 
see her play it — it would tear my nerves to 
pieces,) and in all respects it is fitted only for 
Covent Garden. The chief male character I 
confess I should be very unwilling that any 
one but Kean should play — that is impossible, 
and I must be contented with an inferior ac- 
tor." 

' The play was accordingly sent to Mr. 
Harris. He pronounced the subject to be so 
objectionable that he could not even submit 
the part to Miss O'Neil for perusal, but ex- 
pressed his desire that the author would write 
a tragedy on some other subject, which he would 
gladly accept. Shelley printed a small edition 
at Leghorn, to insure its correctness ; as he was 
much annoyed by the many mistakes that crept 
into his text, when distance prevented him 
from correcting the press. 

' Universal approbation soon stamped The 
Cenci as the best tragedy of modern times. 
Writing concerning it, Shelley said : '' I have 
been cautious to avoid the introducing faults 
of youthful composition ; diffuseness, a profu- 
sion of inapplicable imagery, vagueness, gener- 
ality, and, as Hamlet says, words, words" 



208 



THE CENCI 



There is nothing that is not purely dramatic 
throughout ; and the character of Beatrice, 
proceeding from vehement struggle to horror, 
to deadly resolution, and lastly, to the eLe- 
vated dignity of calm suffering, joined to pas- 
sionate tenderness and pathos, is touched with 
hues so vivid and so beautiful, that the poet 
seems to have read intimately the secrets of 
the noble heart imaged in the lovely counte- 
nance of the unfortunate girl. The Fifth Act is 
a masterpiece. It is the finest thing he ever 
wrote, and may claim proud comparison not 
only with any contemporary, but- preceding 
poet. The varying feelings of Beatrice are 
expressed with passionate, heart-reaching elo- 
quence. Every character has a voice that 
echoes truth in its tones. It is curious, to one 
acquainted with the written story, to mark the 
success with which the poet has inwoven the 
real incidents of the tragedy into his scenes, 
and yet, through the power of poetry, has 
obliterated all that would otherwise have shown 
too harsh or too hideous in the picture. His 
success was a double triumph ; and often after 
he was earnestly entreated to write again in a 
style that commanded popular favor, while it 
was not less instinct with truth and genius. 
But the bent of his mind went the other way ; 
and even when employed on subjects whose 
interest depended on character and incident, 
he would start off in another direction, and 
leave the delineations of human passion, which 
he could depict in so able a manner, for fantas- 
tic creations of his fancy, or the expression of 
those opinions and sentiments with regard to 
human nature and its destiny, a desire to diffuse 
which was the master passion of his soul.' 

Though Shelley's references to the drama, in 
his correspondence, are many, they are rather 
concerned with the stage-production and publi- 
cation of it than with criticism. While still 
warm with its composition he wrote to Peacock, 
' My work on The Cenci, which was done in 
two months, was a fine antidote to nervous 
medicines and kept up, I tliink, the pain in my 
side as sticks do a fire. Since then I have ma- 
terially improved ; ' and in offering the dedica- 
tion to Leigh Hunt, he says, — ' I have written 
something and finished it, different from any- 
thing else, and a new attempt for me ; and I 
mean to dedicate it to you. I should not have 
done so without your approbation, but I asked 
your picture last night, and it smiled assent. 
If I did not think it in some degree worthy of 
you, I would not make you a public offering 
of it. I expect to have to write to you soon 
about it. If Oilier is not turned Christian, 
Jew, or become infected with the Murrain, he 
will publish it. Don't let him be frightened, 
for it is nothing which by any courtesy of lan- 
guage can be termed either moral or immoral,' 



In letters to Oilier he describes it as ' calcu 
lated to produce a very popular effect,' ' ex- 
pressly written for theatrical exhibition,' and 
' written for the multitude.' He doubtless 
had in mind, while using these phrases, its re- 
straint of style, in which it is unique among 
his longer works, and its freedom from abstract 
thought and the peculiar imagery in which he 
delighted. Its failure disapjDointed him, as it 
is the only one of his works from which he 
seems to have expected contemporary and 
popular success. ' The Cenci ought to have 
been popular,' he writes again to Oilier ; and 
the effect of continued neglect of his writings, 
in depressing his spirits, is shown in a letter the 
preceding day to Peacock, — ' Nothing is more 
difficult and unwelcome than to write without 
a confidence of finding readers ; and if my play 
of The Cenci found none or few, I despair of 
ever producing anything that shall merit them.' 
Byron was ' loud in censure,' and Keats was 
critical, in the very point where criticism was 
perhaps least needed ; he wrote, acknowledging 
a gift copy, — ' You, I am sure, will forgive me 
for sincerely remarking that you might curb 
your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and 
load every rift of your subject with ore. The 
thought of such discipline must fall like cold 
chains upon yoix, who perhaps never sat wHh 
your wings furled for six months together. 
And is not this extraordinary talk for the 
writer of Endymion, whose mind was like a 
pack of scattered cards ? ' Trelawny records 
Shelley's last, and most condensed judgment : 
' In writing The Cenci my object was to see how 
I could succeed in describing passions I have 
never felt, and to tell the most dreadful story 
in pure and refined language. The image of 
Beatrice haunted me after seeing her portrait. 
The story is well authenticated, and the details 
far more horrible than I have painted thein. 
The Cenci is a work of art ; it is not colored by 
my feelings nor obscured by my metaphysics. 
I don't think much of it. It gave me less 
trouble than anything I have written of the 
same length.' 

DEDICATION 
TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. 

My dear Friend, — I inscribe with your 
name, from a distant country, and after an ab- 
sence whose months have seemed years, this 
the latest of my literary efforts. 

Those writings which I have hitherto pub- 
lished have been little else than visions which 
impersonate my own apprehensions of the beau- 
tiful and the just. I can also perceive in thein 
the literary defects incidental to youth and im 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 



209 



patience ; they are dreams of what ought to 
be or may be. The drama which I now pre- 
sent to you is a sad reality. I lay aside the 
presumptuous attitude of an instructor and am 
content to paint, with such colors as my own 
heart furnishes, that which has been. 

Had I known a person more highly endowed 
than yourself with all that it becomes a man 
to possess, I had solicited for this work the 
ornament of his name. One more gentle, hon- 
orable, innocent and brave ; one of more ex- 
alted toleration for all who do and think evil, 
and yet himself more free from evil ; one who 
knows better how to receive and how to con- 
fer a benefit, though he must ever confer far 
more than he can receive ; one of simpler, and, 
in the highest sense of the word, of purer life 
and manners, I never knew ; and I had already 
been fortunate in friendships when your name 
was added to the list. 

In that patient and irreconcilable enmity 
with domestic and political tyranny and impos- 
ture which the tenor of your life has illus- 
trated, and which, had I health and talents, 
should illustrate mine, let us, comforting each 
other in our task, live and die. 

All happiness attend you ! 
Your affectionate friend, 

Percy B. Shelley. 

Rome, May 29, 1819. 

PREFACE 

A Manuscript was communicated to me 
during my travels in Italy, which was copied 
from the archives of the Cenci Palace at Rome 
and contains a detailed account of the horrors 
which ended in the extinction of one of the 
noblest and richest families of that city, during 
the Pontificate of Clement VIII., in the year 
1599. The story is that an old man, having 
spent his life in debauchery and wickedness, 
conceived at length an implacable hatred 
towards his children ; which showed itself 
towards one daughter under the form of an in- 
cestuous passion, aggravated by every circum- 
stance of cruelty and violence. This daughter, 
after long and vain attempts to escape from 
what she considered a perpetual contamination 
both of body and mind, at length plotted with 
her mother-in-law and brother to murder their 
common tyrant. The young maiden who was 
urged to this tremendous deed by an impulse 
which overpowered its horror was evidently a 
most gentle and amiable being, a creature 
formed to adorn and be admired, and thus vio- 
lently thwarted from her nature by the necessity 
of circumstance and opinion. The deed was 
quickly discovered, and, in spite of the most 
earnest prayers made to the Pope by the high- 
est persons in Rome, the criminals were put to 



death. The old man had during his life re- 
peatedly bought his pardon from the Pope for 
capital crimes of the most enormous and un- 
speakable kind at the price of a hundred thou- 
sand crowns; the death therefore of his vic- 
tims can scarcely be accounted for by the love 
of justice. The Pope, among other motives 
for severity, probably felt that whoever killed 
the Count Cenci deprived his treasury of a 
certain and copious source of revenue.^ Such 
a story, if told so as to present to the reader 
all the feelings of those who once acted it, 
their hopes and fears, their confidences and 
misgivings, their various interests, passions and 
opinions, acting upon and with each other yet 
all conspiring to one tremendous end, would be 
as a light to make apparent some of the most 
dark and secret caverns of the human heart. 

On my arrival at Rome I found that the 
story of the Cenci was a subject not to be 
mentioned in Italian society without awaken- 
ing a deep and breathless interest ; and that 
the feelings of the company never failed to in- 
cline to a romantic pity for the wrongs and a 
passionate exculpation of the horrible deed 
to which they urged her who has been mingled 
two centuries with the common dust. All 
ranks of people knew tlie outlines of this his- 
tory and participated in the overwhelming in- 
terest which it seems to have the magic of ex- 
citing in the human heart. I had a copy of 
Guido's picture of Beatrice which is preserved 
in the Colonna Palace, and my servant instantly 
recognized it as the portrait of La Cenci. 

This national and universal interest which 
tlie story produces and has produced for two 
centuries and among all ranks of people in a 
great. City, where the imagination is kept for- 
ever active and awake, first suggested to me 
the conception of its fitness for a dramatic 
purpose. In fact it is a tragedy which has al- 
ready received, from its capacity of awakening 
and sustaining the sympathy of men, appro- 
bation and success. Nothing remained as I im- 
agined but to clothe it to the apprehensions of 
my countrymen in such language and action as 
would bring it home to their hearts. The 
deepest and the sublimest tragic compositions. 
King Lear and the two plays in which the tale 
of CEdipus is told, were stories which already 
existed in tradition, as matters of popular 
belief and interest, before Shakespeare and 
Sophocles made them familiar to the sympa- 
thy of all succeeding generations of man- 
kind. 

This story of the Cenci is indeed eminently 

1 The Papal Government formerly took the most ex- 
traordinary precautions against tlie publicity of facts 
wliich offer so tragjical a demonstration of its own wick- 
e<lness and weakness ; so that the communication of 
the MS. had become, until very lately, a matter of 
some difficulty. 



210 



THE CENCI 



fearful and monstrous ; anything' like a dry 
exhibition of it on the stage would be insup- 
portable. The person who would treat such a 
subject must increase the ideal and diminish 
the actual horror of the events, so that the 
pleasure which arises from the poetry which 
exists in these tempestuous sufferings and 
crimes may mitigate the pain of the contem- 
plation of the moral deformity from which 
they spring. There must also be nothing at- 
tempted to make the exhibition subservient to 
what is vulgarly termed a moral purpose. The 
highest moral purpose aimed at in the highest 
species of the drama is the teaching the hu- 
man heart, through its sympathies and antipa- 
thies, the knowledge of itself ; in proportion to 
the possession of which knowledge every hu- 
man being is wise, just, sincere, tolerant and 
kind. If dogmas can do more, it is well : but 
a drama is no fit place for the enforcement of 
them. Undoubtedly no person can be truly 
dishonored by the act of another ; and tlie fit 
return to make to the most enormous injuries 
is kindness and forbearance and a resolution to 
convert the injurer from his dark passions by 
peace and love. Revenge, retaliation, atone- 
ment, are pernicious mistakes. If Beatrice 
had thought in this manner she would have 
been wiser and better ; but she would never 
have been a tragic character. The few whom 
such an exhibition would have interested could 
never have been sufficiently interested for a 
dramatic purpose, from the want of finding 
sympathy in their interest among the mass 
who surround them. It is in the restless and 
anatomizing casuistry with which men seek 
the justification of Beatrice, yet feel that she 
has done what needs justification ; it is in the 
superstitious horror with which they contem- 
plate alike her wrongs and their revenge, — 
that the dramatic character of what she did 
and suffered, consists. 

I have endeavored as nearly as possible to 
represent the characters as they probably were, 
and have sought to avoid the error of making 
them actuated by my own conceptions of right 
or wrong, false or true : thus under a thin veil 
converting names and actions of the sixteenth 
century into cold impersonations of my own 
mind. They are represented as Catholics, and 
as Catholics deeply tinged with religion. To 
a Protestant apprehension there will appear 
something unnatural in the earnest and per- 
petual sentiment of the relations between God 
and men which pervade the tragedy of the 
Cenci. It will especially be startled at the 
combination of an undoubting persuasion of 
the truth of the popular religion with a cool 
and determined perseverance in enormous guilt. 
But religion in Italy is not, as in Protestant 
countries, a cloak to be worn on particular 



days ; or a passport which those who do not 
wish to be railed at carry with them to exhibit ; 
or a gloomy passion for penetrating the im- 
penetrable mysteries of our being, which terri- 
fies its possessor at the darkness of the abyss 
to the brink of which it has conducted him. 
Religion coexists, as it were, in the mind of an 
Italian Catholic, with a faith in that of which 
all men have the most certain knowledge. It 
is interwoven with the whole fabric of life. It 
is adoration, faith, submission, penitence, blind 
admiration ; not a rule for moral conduct. It 
has no necessary connection with any one vir- 
tue. The most atrocious villain may be rigidly 
devout, and without any shock to established 
faith confess himself to be so. Religion per- 
vades intensely the whole frame of society, and 
is, according to the temper of the mind which 
it inhabits, a passion, a persuasion, an excuse, 
a refuge ; never a check. Cenci himself built 
a chapel in the court of his Palace, and dedi- 
cated it to St. Thomas the Apostle, and estab- 
lished masses for the peace of his soul. Thus 
in the first scene of the fourth act Lucre tia's 
design in exposing herself to the consequences 
of an expostulation with Cenci after having 
administered the opiate was to induce him by 
a feigned tale to confess himself before death, 
this being esteemed by Catholics as essential 
to salvation ; and she only relinquishes her 
purpose when she perceives that her persever- 
ance would expose Beatrice to new outrages. 

I have avoided with great care in writing 
this play the introduction of what is commonly 
called mere poetry, and I imagine there will 
scarcely be found a detached simile or a single 
isolated description, unless Beatrice's descrip- 
tion of the chasm appointed for her father's 
murder should be judged to be of that nature.^ 

In a dramatic composition the imagery and 
the passion should interpenetrate one another, 
the former being reserved simply for the full 
development and illustration of the latter. 
Imagination is as the immortal God which 
should assume flesh for the redemption of 
mortal passion. It is thus that the most re- 
mote and the most familiar imagery may alike 
be fit for dramatic purposes when employed in 
the illustration of strong feeling, which raises 
what is low and levels to the apprehension that 
which is lofty, casting over all the shadow of 
its OAvn greatness. In other respects I have 
written more carelessly ; that is, without an 
overfastidious and learned choice of words. 
In this respect I entirely agree with those 
modern critics who assert that in order to 
move men to true sympathy we must use the 

^ An idea in this speech was suggested by a most 
sublime passage in El Ptirgatorio de San Patricio of 
Calderon; the only plagiarism which I have intentioi>- 
ally committed in the whole piece. 



ACT I : SC. I 



THE CENCI 



211 



familiar language of men, and that our great 
ancestors the ancient English poets are the 
writers, a study of whom might incite us to do 
that for our own age which they have done for 
theirs. But it must be the real language of 
men in general and not that of any particular 
class to whose society the writer happens to 
belong. So much for what I have attempted ; 
I need not be assured that success is a very 
different matter ; particularly for one whose 
attention has but newly been awakened to the 
study of dramatic literature. 

I endeavored whilst at Rome to observe such 
monuments of this story as might be accessible 
to a stranger. The portrait of Beatrice at the 
Colonna Palace is admirable as a work of art ; 
it was taken by Guido during her confinement 
in prison. But it is most interesting as a just 
representation of one of the loveliest specimens 
of the workmanship of Nature. There is a 
fixed and pale composure upon the features ; 
she seems sad and stricken down in spirit, yet 
the despair thus expressed is lightened by the 
patience of gentleness. Her head is bound 
with folds of white drapery from which the 
yellow strings of her golden hair escape and 
fall about her neck. The moulding of her 
face is exquisitely delicate ; the eyebrows are 
distinct and arched ; the lips have that perma- 
nent meaning of imagination and sensibility 
which suffering has not repressed and which it 
seems as if death scarcely could extinguish. 
Her forehead is large and clear ; her eyes, 
which we are told were remarkable for their 
vivacity, are swollen with weeping and lustre- 



less, but beautifully tender and serene. In 
the whole mien there is a simplicity and dignity 
which, united with her exquisite loveliness and 
deep sorrow, are inexpressibly pathetic. Bea- 
trice Cenci appears to have been one of those 
rare persons in whom energy and gentleness 
dwell together without destroying one another ; 
her nature was simple and profound. The 
crimes and miseries in which she was an actor 
and a sufferer are as the mask and the mantle 
in which circumstances clothed her for her 
impersonation on the scene of the world. 

The Cenci Palace is of great extent ; and, 
though in part modernized, there yet remains 
a vast and gloomy pile of feudal architecture 
in the same state as during the dreadful scenes 
which are the subject of this tragedy. The 
Palace is situated in an obscure corner of 
Rome, near the quarter of the Jews, and from 
the upper windows you see the immense ruins 
of Mount Palatine half hidden under their 
profuse overgrowth of trees. There is a court 
in one part of the Palace (perhaps that in 
which Cenci built the Chapel to St. Thomas), 
supported by granite columns and adorned with 
antique friezes of fine workmanship, and built 
up, according to the ancient Italian fashion, 
with balcony over balcony of openwork. One 
of the gates of the Palace formed of immense 
stones and leading through a passage, dark 
and lofty and opening into gloomy subterra- 
nean chambers, struck me particularly. 

Of the Castle of Petrella, I could obtain no 
further information than that which is to be 
found in the manuscript. 



THE CENCI 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Count Francesco Cenci. Andrea, Servant to 

GiAcoMO, 1 , . g Cenci. 

Bernardo, ( ' Nobles. Judges. 

Cardinal Camillo. Guards. Servants. 

Prince Colonna. Lucretia, Wife of 

Orsino, a Prelate. Cenci and Stepino- 
Savella, the Pope's Legate. ther of his children. 

Olimpio, ) A<iqaa<»ina BEATRICE, his Daugh- 

Marzio, I Assassins. ^^^ 

The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes dur- 
ing the fourth Act to Pretrella, a castle among the 
Apulian Apennines. 

Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII. 

ACT I 

Scene I. — An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. 
Enter Count Cenci and Cardinal Ca- 
millo. 

CAMILLO 

That matter of the murder is hushed up 
If you consent to yield his Holiness 



Your fi.ef that lies beyond the Pincian gate. 
It needed all my interest in the conclave 
To bend him to this point ; he said that you 
Bought perilous impunity with your gold; 
That crimes like yours if once or twice 

compounded 
Enriched the Church, and respited from hell 
An erring soul which might repent and live; 
But that the glory and the interest lo 

Of the high throne he fills little consist 
With making it a daily mart of guilt 
As manifold and hideous as the deeds 
Which you scarce hide from men's re- 
volted eyes. 

CENCI 

The third of my possessions — let it go ! 
Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope 
Had sent his architect to view the ground, 
Meaning to build a villa on my vines 
The next time I compounded with his uncle. 
I little thought he should outwit me so ! 20 



212 



THE CENCI 



ACT I : fee. I 



Henceforth no witness — not the lamp — 

shall see 
That which the vassal threatened to divulge, 
Whose throat is choked with dust for his 

reward. 
The deed he saw could not have rated 

higher 
Than his most worthless life — it angers 

me ! 
Respited me from Hell ! So may the 

Devil 
clespite their souls from Heaven ! No 

doubt Pope Clement, 
And his most charitable nephews, pray- 
That the Apostle Peter and the saints 
Will grant for their sake that I long 

enjoy 30 

Strength, wealth, and pride, and lust, and 

length of days 
Wherein to act the deeds which are the 

stewards 
Of their revenue. — But much yet remains 
To which they show no title. 

CAMILLO 

Oh, Count Cenci ! 
So much that thou mightst honorably live 
And reconcile thyself with thine own heart 
And with thy God and with the offended 

world. 
How hideously look deeds of lust and blood 
Through those snow-white and venerable 

hairs ! 
Your children should be sitting round you 

now 40 

But that you fear to read upon their looks 
The shame and misery you have written 

there. 
Where is your wife ? Where is your gentle 

daughter ? 
Methinks her sweet looks, which make all 

tilings else 
Beauteous and glad, might kill the fiend 

within you. 
Why is she barred from all society 
But her own strange and uncomplaining 

wrongs ? 
Talk with me, Count, — you know 1 mean 

you well. 
I stood beside your dark and fiery youth, 
Watching its bold and bad career, as men 50 
Watch meteors, but it vanished not; I 

marked 
Your desperate and remorseless manhood; 



Do I behold you in dishonored age 
Charged with a thousand unrepented 

crimes. 
Yet I have ever hoped you would amend. 
And in that hope have saved your life three 

times. 

CENCI 

For which Aldobrandino owes you now 
My fief beyond the Pincian. Cardinal, 
One thing, I pray you, recollect henceforth. 
And so we shall converse with less re- 
straint. 60 
A man you knew spoke of my wife and 

daughter; 
He was accustomed to frequent my house ; 
So the next day his wife and daughter came 
And asked if I had seen him; and I smiled. 
I think they never saw him any more. 

CAMILLO 

Thou execrable man, beware ! 

CENCI 

Of thee? 
Nay, this is idle. We should know each 

other. 
As to my character for what men call crime, 
Seeing I please my senses as I list, 
And vindicate that right with force or 

guile, 70 

It is a public matter, and I care not 
If I discuss it with you. I may speak 
Alike to you and my own conscious heart. 
For you give out that you have half re- 
formed me; 
Therefore strong vanity will keep you 

silent, 
If fear should not; both will, I do not 

doubt. 
All men delight in sensual luxury; 
All men enjoy revenge, and most exult 
Over the tortures they can never feel. 
Flattering their secret peace with others' 

pain. 80 

But I delight in nothing else. I love 
The sight of agony, and the sense of joy, 
When this shall be another's and that mine ; 
And I have no remorse and little fear. 
Which are, I think, the checks of other 

men. 
This mood has grown upon me, until now 
Any design my captious fancy makes 
The picture of its wish — and it forms 

none 



ACT I : SC. 1 



THE CENCI 



213 



But such as men like you would start to 

know — 
Is as my natural food and rest debarred 90 
Until it be accomplished. 



CAMIKLO 



Art thou not 



Most miserable ? 



CENCI 

Why miserable ? 
No. I am what your theologians call 
Hardened; which they must be in impu- 
dence, 
So to revile a man's peculiar taste. 
True, I was happier than I am, while yet 
Manhood remained to act the thing I 

thought, — 
While lust was sweeter than revenge; and 

now 
Invention palls. Ay, we must all grow old. 
And but that there remains a deed to act 
Whose horror might make sharp an appe- 
tite lOI 

Duller than mine — I 'd do, — I know not 

what. 
When I was young I thought of nothing 

else 
But pleasure; and I fed on honey sweets. 
Men, by St. Thomas ! cannot live like 

bees, — 
And I grew tired; yet, till I killed a foe. 
And heard his groans, and heard his chil- 
dren's groans. 
Knew I not what delight was else on 

earth, — 
Which now delights me little. I the rather 
Look on such pangs as terror ill conceals — 
The dry, fixed eyeball, the pale, quivering 

lip, III 

Which tell me that the spirit weeps within 
Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of 

Christ. 
I rarely kill the body, which preserves, 
Like a strong prison, the soul within my 

power, 
Wherein I feed it with the breath of fear 
For hourly pain. 

CAMLLLO 

Hell's most abandoned fiend 
Did never, in the drunkenness of guilt, 
Speak to his heart as now you speak to 

me. 
I thank my God that I believe you not. 120 



Enter Andrea 

ANDREA 



My Lord, a gentleman from Salamanca 
Would speak with you. 



CENCI 



In the grand saloon. 



Bid him attend me 
[Exit Andrea. 



CAMILLO 

Farewell; and I will pray 
Almighty God that thy false, impious words 
Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee. 

[Exit Camillo. 

CENCI 

The third of my possessions ! I must use 
Close husbandry, or gold, the old man's 

sword, 
Falls from my withered hand. But yester- 
day 
There came an order from the Pope to make 
Fourfold provision for my cursed sons, 130 
Whom I had sent from Rome to Salamanca, 
Hoping some accident might cut them off, 
And meaning, if I could, to starve them 

there. 
I pray thee, God, send some quick death 

upon them ! 
Bernardo and my wife could not be worse 
If dead and damned. Then, as to Bea- 
trice — 

[Looking around him suspiciously. 
I think they cannot hear me at that door. 
What if they should ? And yet I need not 

speak, 
Though the heart triumphs with itself in 
words. 139 

O thou most silent air, that shalt not hear 
What now I think ! Thou pavement which 

I tread 
Towards her chamber, — let your echoes 

talk 
Of my imperious step, scorning surprise, 
But not of my intent ! — Andrea ! 

Enter Andrea 

ANDREA 

My Lord ? 

CENCI 

Bid Beatrice attend me in her chamber 
This evening: — no, at midnight and alone 

[Exeunt 



214 



THE CENCI 



ACT I ; SC. II 



Scene II. — A Garden of the Cenci Palace. 
Enter Beatkice and Ok&ino, as in conversa- 
tion. 

BEATRICE 

Pervert not truth, 
Orsiiio. You remember where we held 
That conversation; nay, we see the spot 
Even from this cypress; two long years are 

passed 
Since, on an April midnight, underneath 
The moonlight ruins of Mount Palatine, 
I did confess to you my secret mind. 

ORSINO 

You said you loved me then. 



BEATRICE 



Speak to me not of love. 



You are a priest. 



ORSINO 

I may obtain 
The dispensation of the Pope to marry. lo 
Because I am a priest do you believe 
Your image, as the hunter some struck 

deer. 
Follows me not whether I wake or sleep ? 

BEATRICE 

As I have said, speak to me not of love; 
Had you a dispensation, I have not; 
Nor will I leave this home of misery 
Whilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle 

lady 
To whom I owe life and these virtuous 

thoughts, 
Must suffer what I still have strength to 

share. 
Alas, Orsino ! All the love that once 20 
J felt for you is turned to bitter pain. 
Ours was a youthful contract, which you 

first 
Broke by assuming vows no Pope will 

loose. 
And thus I love you still, but holily, 
Even as a sister or a spirit might; 
And so I swear a cold fidelity. 
And it is well perhaps we shall not marry. 
You have a sly, equivocating vein 
That suits me not. — Ah, wretched that I 

am ! 
Where shall I turn ? Even now you look 

on me 30 

As you were not my friend, and as if you 



Discovered that I thought so, with false 

smiles 
Making my true suspicion seem your wrong. 
Ah, no, forgive me; sorrow makes me seem 
Sterner tlian else my nature might have 

been; 
I have a weight of melancholy thoughts. 
And they forebode, — but what can they 

forebode 
Worse than I now endure ? 

ORSINO 

All will be well 
Is the petition yet prepared V You know 
My zeal for all you wish, sweet Beatrice ; 40 
Doubt not but I will use my utmost skill 
So that the Pope attend to your complaint. 

BEATRICE 

Your zeal for all I wish. Ah me, you are 

cold! 
Your utmost skill — speak but one word — 

{Aside) Alas ! 
Weak and deserted creature that I am. 
Here I stand bickering with my only friend ! 

[To Orsino) 
This night my father gives a sumptuous 

feast, 
Orsino ; he has heard some happy news 
From Salamanca, from my brothers there. 
And with this outward show of love he 

mocks so 

His inward hate. 'T is bold hypocrisy. 
For he would gladlier celebrate their deaths, 
Which I have heard him pray for on his 

knees. 
Great God ! that such a father should be 

mine ! 
But there is mighty preparation made, 
And all our kin, the Cenci, will be there, 
And all the chief nobility of Rome. 
And he has bidden me and my pale mother 
Attire ourselves in festival array. 59 

Poor lady ! she expects some happy change 
In his dark spirit from this act; I none. 
At supper I will give you the petition; 
Till when — farewell. 

orsino 
Farewell. 

[Exit Beatrice. 
I know the Pope 
Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly vow 
But by absolving me from the revenue 



ACT I SC. Ill 



THE CENCI 



21$ 



Of many a wealthy see; and, Beatrice, 
I think to win thee at an easier rate. 
Nor shall he read her eloquent petition. 
He might bestow her on some poor relation 
Of his sixth cousin, as he did her sister, ^o 
And I should be debarred from all access. 
Then as to what she suffers from her 

father, 
In all this there is much exaggeration. 
Old men are testy, and will have their way. 
A man may stab his enemy, or his vassal. 
And live a free life as to wine or women, 
And with a peevish temper may return 
To a dull home, and rate his wife and chil- 
dren ; 
Daughters and wives call this foul tyranny. 
I shall be well content if on my conscience 
There rest no heavier sin than what they 
suffer 8 1 

From the devices of my love — a net 
From which she shall escape not. Yet I 

fear 
Her subtle mind, her awe-inspiring gaze, 
Whose beams anatomize me, nerve by 

nerve, 
And lay -me bare, and make me blush to 

see 
My hidden thoughts. — Ah, no ! a friend- 
less girl 
Who clings to me, as to her only hope ! 
I were a fool, not less than if a panther 8g 
Were panic-stricken by the antelope's eye, 
If she escape me. 

{^Exit. 

Scene III. — A magnificent Hall in the Cenci 
Palace. A Banquet. Enter Cenci, Lu- 
CBETiA, Beatrice, Orsino, Camillo, No- 
bles. 

CENCI 

Welcome, my friends and kinsmen; wel- 
come ye, 

Princes and Cardinals, pillars of the church, 

Whose presence honors our festivity. 

I have too long lived like an anchorite. 

And in my absence from your merry meet- 
ings 

An evil word is gone abroad of me; 

But I do hope that you, my noble friends. 

When you have shared the entertainment 
here. 

And heard the pious cause for which 't is 
given. 

And we have pledged a health or two to- 
gether, IQ 



Will think me flesh and blood as well SLi 

you; 
Sinful indeed, for Adam made all so, 
But tender-hearted, meek and pitiful. 

first guest 

In truth, my Lord, you seem too light of 

heart. 
Too sprightly and companionable a man, 
To act the deeds that rumor pins on you. 

[To his companion. 
1 never saw such blithe and open cheer 
In any eye ! 

second guest 

Some most desired event. 
In which we all demand a common joy, 
Has brought us hither; let us hear it. 
Count. 20 

cenci 

It is indeed a most desired event. 

If when a parent from a parent's heart 

Lifts from this earth to the great Father of 

all 
A prayer, both when he lays him down to 

sleep. 
And when he rises up from dreaming it; 
One supplication, one desire, one hope. 
That he would grant a wish for his two 

sons. 
Even all that he demands in their regard. 
And suddenly beyond his dearest hope 29 
It is accomplished, he should then rejoice, 
And call his friends and kinsmen to a feast. 
And task their love to grace his merri- 
ment, — 
Then honor me thus far, for I am he. 

BEATRICE (to LUCRETIA) 

Great God ! How horrible ! some dreadful 

ill 
Must have befallen my brothers. 



LUCRETIA 



He speaks too frankly. 



Fear not, child. 



BEATRICE 



Ah ! My blood runs cold. 
I fear that wicked laughter round his 

eye, 
Wliich wrinkles up the skin even to the 

bair. 



2l6 



THE CENCI 



ACT I : sc. Ill 



CENCI 

Here are the letters brought from Sala- 
manca. 39 

Beatrice, read them to your mother. God ! 

I thank thee ! In one night didst thou 
perform, 

By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought. 

My disobedient and rebellious sons 

Are dead ! — Why, dead ! — What means 
this change of cheer ? 

You hear me not — 1 tell you they are 
dead; 

And they will need no food or raiment 
more; 

The tapers that did light them the dark 
way 

Are their last cost. The Pope, I think, 
will not 

Expect I should maintain them in their 
coffins. 

Rejoice with me — my heart is wondrous 
glad. 50 

BEATRICE (lucretia sinks, half fainting ; 
BEATRICE supports her) 

It is not true ! — Dear Lady, pray look up. 

Had it been true — there is a God in Hea- 
ven — 

He would not live to boast of such a boon. 

Unnatural man, thou knowest that it is 
false. 

CENCI 

Ay, as the word of God; whom here I call 
To witness that I speak the sober truth; 
And whose most favoring providence was 

shown 
Even in the manner of their deaths. For 

Rocco 
Was kneeling at the mass, with sixteen 

others, 
When the church fell and crushed him to 

a mummy; 60 

The rest escaped unhurt. Cristofano 
Was stabbed in error by a jealous man, 
Whilst she he loved was slee})ing with his 

rival, 
All in the self-same hour of tlie same night; 
Which shows that Heaven has special care 

of me. 
I beg those friends who love me that they 

mark 
The day a feast upon their calendars. 
It was the twenty- seventh of December. 
Ay, read the letters if you doubt my oath. 



{The assembly appears confused ; several oj 
the guests rise. 

FIRST GUEST 

Oh, horrible ! I will depart. 

SECOND GUEST 

And I. 

THIRD GUEST 

No, stay ! 
I do believe it is some jest; though, faith ! 
'T is mocking us somewhat too solemnly. 72 
I think his son has married the Infanta, 
Or found a mine of gold in El Dorado. 
'Tis but to season some such news; stay, 

stay ! 
I see 't is only raillery by his smile. 

CENCI (filing a bowl of wine, and lifting 
it up) 

O thou bright wine, whose purple splendor 

leaps 
And bubbles gayly in this golden bowl 
Under the lamp-light, as my spirits do. 
To hear the death of my accursed sons ! 80 
Could I believe thou wert their mingled 

blood. 
Then would I taste thee like a sacrament, 
And pledge with thee tlie mighty Devil in 

Hell, 
Who, if a father's curses, as men say. 
Climb with swift wings after their chil- 
dren's souls. 
And drng them from the very throne ( f 

Heaven, 
Now triumphs in my triumph ! — But thou 

art 
Superfluous; I have drunken deep of joy, 
And I will taste no other wine to-night. 
Here, Andrea ! Bear the bowl around. 90 

A GUEST (rising) 

Thou wretch ! 
Will none nmong this noble company 
Check the abandoned villain ? 



CAMILLO 



For God's sake, 



Let me dismiss the guests ! You are in- 
sane. 
Some ill will come of this. 



SECOND GUEST 

Seize, silence him ! 



ACT 1 : sc. ill 



THE CENCI 



217 



I will ! 



FIRST GUEST 
THIRD GUEST 

And I ! 



GENCI (addressing those who rise with a threat- 
ening gesture) 

Who moves ? Who speaks ? 
[Turning to the company. 
'T is nothing, 
Enjoy yourselves. — Beware ! for my re- 
venge 
Is as the sealed commission of a king, 
That kills, and none dare name the mur- 
derer. 
[The Banquet is broken up; several of the 
Guests are departing. 

BEATRICE 

I do entreat you, go not, noble guests; 99 
What although tyranny and impious hate 
Stand sheltered by a father's hoary hair ? 
What if 't is he who clothed us in these 

limbs 
Who tortures them, and triumphs ? What, 

if we. 
The desolate and the dead, were his own 

flesh. 
His children and his wife, whom he is bound 
To love and shelter ? Shall we therefore 

find 
No refuge in this merciless wide world ? 
Oh, think what deep wrongs must have 

blotted out 
First love, then reverence, in a child's prone 

mind, 
Till it thus vanquish shame and fear ! Oh, 

think ! no 

I have borne much, and kissed the sacred 

hand 
Which crushed us to the earth, and thought 

its stroke 
Was perhaps some paternal chastisement ! 
Have excused much, doubted; and when 

no doubt 
Remained, have sought by patience, love 

and tears 
To soften him; and when this could not 

be, 
I have knelt down through the long sleep- 
less nights. 
And lifted up to God, the father of all, 
Passionate prayers; and when these were 

not heard, 119 

I have still borne, — until I meet you here. 



Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous feast 
Given at my brothers' deaths. Two yet 

remain ; 
His wife remains and I, whom if ye save 

not. 
Ye may soon share such merriment again 
As fathers make over their children's 

graves. 
Oh ! Prince Colonna, thou art our near 

kinsman; 
Cardinal, thou art the Pope's chamberlain j 
Camillo, thou art chief justiciary; 
Take us away ! 

CENCI {he Aas been conversing with camillo 
during the first j^art of Beatrice's speech; 
he hears the conclusion^ and now advances) 

I hope my good friends here 
Will think of their own daughters — or 

perhaps 130 

Of their own throats — before they lend an 

ear 
To this wild girl. 

BEATRICE {not noticing the words of cenci) 

Dare no one look on me ? 
None answer ? Can one tyrant overbear 
The sense of many best and wisest men ? 
Or is it that I sue not in some form 
Of scrupulous law that ye deny my suit ? 
Oh, God ! that I were buried with my 

brothers ! 
And that the flowers of this departed 

spring 
Were fading on my grave ! and that my 

father 
Were celebrating now one feast for all ! 140 

camillo 
A bitter wish for one so young and gentle. 
Can we do nothing ? — 

colonna 

Nothing that I see 
Count Cenci were a dangerous enemy; 
Yet I would second any one. 

A CARDINAL 

And I. 

CENCI 

Retire to your chamber, insolent girl ! 

BEATRICE 

Retire thou, impious man ! Ay, hide thyself 
Where never eye can look upon thee more f 



2l8 



THE CENCI 



ACT II: SC. i 



Wouldst thou have honor and obedience, 
Who art a torturer ? Father, never dream, 
Though thou mayst overbear this com- 
pany, 150 
But ill must come of ill. Frown not on 

me ! 
Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging 

looks 
My brothers' ghosts should hunt thee from 

thy seat ! 
Cover thy face from every living eye. 
And start if thou but hear a human step; 
Seek out some dark and silent corner — 

there 
Bow thy white head before offended God, 
And we will kneel around, and fervently 
Pray that he pity both ourselves and thee. 

CENCI 

My friends, I do lament this insane girl 160 
Has spoiled the mirth of our festivity. 
Good night, farewell; I will not make you 

longer 
Spectators of our dull domestic quarrels. 
Another time. — 

[Exeunt all but Cenci and Beatrice. 
My brain is swimming round. 
Give me a bowl of wine ! 

{To Beatrice) 

Thou painted viper ! 
Beast that thou art ! Fair and yet terri- 
ble ! 
1 know a charm shall make thee meek and 

tame. 
Now get thee from my sight ! 

[Exit Beatrice. 

Here, Andrea, 

Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. I 

said 
I would not drink this evening, but I 

must; 170 

For, strange to say, I feel my spirits fail 
With thinking what I have decreed to 

do. 

(Drinking the wine) 
Be thou the resolution of quick youth 
Within my veins, and manhood's purpose 

stern, 
And age's firm, cold, subtle villainy; 
As if thou wert indeed my children's blood 
Which I did thirst to drink ! The charm 

works well. 
Lt must be done; it shall be done, I swear ! 

[Exit. 



ACT II 

Scene I. — An Apartment in the Cenci Palace 
Enter Lucrbtia and Bernardo. 

LUCRETIA 

Weep not, my gentle boy; he struck but 

me. 
Who have borne deeper wrongs. In truth, 

if he 
Had killed me, he had done a kinder deed. 

God Almighty, do thou look upon us, 
We have no other friend but only thee ! 
Yet weep not; though I love you as my 

own, 

1 am not your true mother. 

BERNARDO 

Oh, more, more 
Than ever mother was to any child, 
That have you been to me ! Had he not 

been 
My father, do you think that I should 

weep ? 10 

LUCRETIA 

Alas ! poor boy, what else couldst thou have 
done ! 

Enter Beatrice 

BEATRICE {in a hurried voice) 

Did he pass this way ? Have you seen him, 

brother ? 
Ah, no ! that is his step upon the stairs; 
'Tis nearer now; his hand is on the door; 
Mother, if I to thee have ever been 
A duteous child, now save me ! Thou, 

great God, 
Whose image upon earth a father is. 
Dost thou indeed abandon me ? He 

comes; 
The door is opening now; I see his face; 19 
He frowns on others, but he smiles on me, 
Even as he did after the feast last night. 

Enter a Servant 

Almighty God, how merciful thou art ! 
'Tis but Orsino's servant. — Well, what 



news 



SERVANT 



My master bids me say the Holy Father 
Has sent back your petition thus unopened. 

{Giving apaperi 



ACT II : SC. I 



THE CENCI 



219 



And he demands at what hour 'twere 

secure 
To visit you again ? 

LUCRETIA 

At the Ave Mary. 

[Exit Servant. 

So, daughter, our last hope has failed. 
Ah me, 

How pale you look ! you tremble, and you 
stand 

Wrapped in some fixed and fearful medita- 
tion, 30 

As if one thought were overstrong for yon; 

Your eyes have a chill glare; oh, dearest 
child ! 

Are you gone mad ? If not, pray speak to 
me. 

BEATRICE 

You see I am not mad; I speak to you. 

LUCRETIA 

You talked of something that your father 

did 
After that dreadful feast ? Could it be 

worse 
Than when he smiled, and cried, ' My sons 

are dead ! ' 
And every one looked in his neighbor's face 
To see if others were as white as he ? 39 
At the first word he spoke I felt the blood 
Rush to my heart, and fell into a trance; 
And when it passed I sat all weak and 

wild; 
Whilst you alone stood up, and with strong 

words 
Checked his unnatural pride; and I could 

see 
The devil was rebuked that lives in him. 
Until this hour thus you have ever stood 
Between us and your father's moody wrath 
Like a protecting presence ; your firm mind 
Has been our only refuge and defence. 
What can have thus subdued it ? What 

can now 50 

Have given you that cold melancholy look. 
Succeeding to your unaccustomed fear ? 

BEATRICE 

What is it that you say ? I was just think- 
ing 

'T were better not to struggle any more. 

Men, like my father, have been dark and 
bloody; 



Yet never — oh ! before worse comes of it, 
'T were wise to die ; it ends in that at last. 

LUCRETIA 

Oh, talk not so, dear child ! Tell me at 

once 
What did your father do or say to you ? 
He stayed not after that accursed feast 60 
One moment in your chamber. — Speak to 

me. 

BERNARDO 

Oh, sister, sister, prithee, speak to us ! 

BEATRICE (speaking very slowly, with a forced 

calmness) 
It was one word, mother, one little word; 
One look, one smile. 

( Wildly) 

Oh ! he has trampled me 

Under his feet, and made the blood stream 

down 
My pallid cheeks. And he has given us 

all 
Ditch-water, and the fever-stricken flesh 
Of buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve. 
And we have eaten. He has made me look 
On my beloved Bernardo, when the rust 70 
Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet 

limbs ; 
And I have never yet despaired — but 

now ! 
What would I say? 

(Recovering herself) 

Ah, no ! 't is nothing new. 

The sufferings we all share have made me 

wild ; 
He only struck and cursed me as he 

passed; 
He said, he looked, he did, — nothing at 

all 
Beyond his wont, yet it disordered me. 
Alas ! I am forgetful of my duty; 
I should preserve my senses for your sake. 

LUCRETIA 

Nay, Beatrice; have courage, my sweet 
girl. 80 

If any one despairs it should be I, 

Who loved him once, and now must live 
with him 

Till God in pity call for him or me. 

For you may, like your sister, find some 
husband. 

And smile, years hence, with children round 
1 your knees: 



220 



THE CENCI 



ACT II : SC. I 



Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous 

coil, 
Shall be remembered only as a dream. 



BEATRICE 



Talk not to me, dear Lady, of a husband. 
Did you not nurse me when my mother 

died? 
Did you not shield me and that dearest 



boy? 



90 



And had we any other friend but you 
In infancy, with gentle words and looks, 
To win our father not to murder us ? 
And shall I now desert you ? May the 

ghost 
Of my dead mother plead against my soul, 
If I abandon her who filled the place 
She left, with more, even, than a mother's 

love ! 

BERNARDO 

And I am of ray sister's mind. Indeed 

I would not leave you in this wretched- 
ness, 

Even though the Pope should make me 
free to live 100 

In some blithe place, like others of my 
age. 

With sports, and delicate food, and the 
fresh air. 

Oh, never think that I will leave you, mo- 
ther ! 

LUCRETIA 

My dear, dear children ! 

Enter Cenci, suddenly 

CENCI 

What ! Beatrice here ! 
Come hither ! 

[/SAe shrinks hack, and covers her face. 

Nay, hide not your face, 't is fair; 
Look up ! Why, yesternight you dared to 

look 
With disobedient insolence upon me. 
Bending a stern and an inquiring brow 
On what I meant; whilst I then sought to 

hide 
That which I came to tell you — but in 

vain. 1 10 

BEATRICE {wildly staggering towards the door) 

Oh, that the earth would gape ! Hide me, 
OGod! 



CENCI 

Then it was I whose inarticulate words 
Fell from my lips, and who with tottering 

steps 
Fled from your presence, as you now from 

mine. 
Stay, I command you ! From this day and 

hour 
Never again, I think, with fearless eye. 
And brow superior, and unaltered cheek. 
And that lip made for tenderness or scorn, 
Shalt thou strike dumb the meanest of 

mankind ; 
Me least of all. Now get thee to thy 

chamber! 120 

Thou too, loathed image of thy cursed 

mother, 

( To Bernardo) 
Thy milky, meek face makes me sick with 
hate ! 

[^Exeunt Beatrice and Bernardo. 
(Aside) So much has passed between us 

as must make 
Me bold, her fearful. — 'T is an awful 

thing 
To touch such miscliief as I now conceive; 
So men sit shivering on the dewy bank 
And try the chill stream with their feet; 

once in — 
How the delighted spirit pants for joy ! 

LUCRETIA {advancing timidly towards him) 

O husband ! pray forgive poor Beatrice. 
She meant not any ill. 

CENCI 

Nor you perhaps ? 

Nor that young imp, whom you have taught 
by rote 13 1 

Parricide with his alphabet ? nor Giacomo? 

Nor those two most unnatural sons who 
stirred 

Enmity up against me with the Pope ? 

Whom in one night merciful God cut off. 

Innocent lambs! They thought not any 
ill. 

You were not here conspiring ? you said 
nothing 

Of how I might be dungeoned as a mad- 
man ; 

Or be condemned to death for some offence, 

And you would be the witnesses ? This 
failing, 14c 



ACT II : SC. II 



THE CENCI 



221 



How just it were to hire assassins, or 
Put sudden poison in my evening- drink ? 
Or smother me when overcome by wine ? 
Seeing we had no other judge but God, 
And he had sentenced me, and there were 

none 
But you to be the executioners 
Of his decree enregistered in heaven ? 
Oh, no ! You said not this ? 

LUCRETIA 

So help me God, 

I never thought the things you charge me 

with ! 149 

CENCI 

If you dare to speak that wicked lie again, 
I '11 kill you. What ! it was not by your 

counsel 
That Beatrice disturbed the feast last 

night ? 
You did not hope to stir some enemies 
Against me, and escape, and laugh to scorn 
What every nerve of you now trembles at? 
You judged that men were bolder than 

they are; 
Few dare to stand between their grave and 

me. 

LUCBETIA 

Look not so dreadfully ! By my salvation 
I knew not aught that Beatrice designed; 
Nor do I think she designed anything 160 
Until she heard you talk of her dead bro- 
thers. 

CENCI 

Blaspheming liar ! you £.re damned for 

this ! 
But I will take you where you may per- 
suade 
The stones you tread on to deliver you; 
For men shall there be none but those who 

dare 
All things — not question that which I 

command. 
On Wednesday next I shall set out; you 

know 
That savage rock, the Castle of Petrella; 
'T is safely walled, and moated round 

about; 
Its dungeons under ground and its thick 

towers 170 

Never told tales; though they have heard 

and seen 



What might make dumb things speaks 
Why do you linger ? 

Make speediest preparation for the jour- 
ney ! 

[Exit LuCRETIAc 

The all-beholding sun yet shines ; I hear 

A busy stir of men about the streets; 

I see the bright sky through the window 

panes. 
It is a garish, broad, and peering day; 
Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and 

ears; 
And every little corner, nook, and hole. 
Is penetrated with the insolent light. 180 
Come, darkness ! Yet, what is the day to 

me? 
And wherefore should I wish for night, 

who do 
A deed which shall confound both night 

and day ? 
'T is she shall grope through a bewildering 

mist 
Of horror; if there be a sun in heaven, 
She shall not dare to look upon its beams; 
Nor feel its warmth. Let her, then, wish 

for night; 
The act I think shall soon extinguish all 
For me; I bear a darker, deadlier gloom 
Than the earth's shade, or interlunar air, 
Or constellations quenched in murkiest 

cloud, 191 

In which I walk secure and unbeheld 
Towards my purpose. — Would that it were 

done ! 

[Exit. 

Scene II. — A Chamber in the Vatican. Enter 
Camillo and Giacomo, in conversation. 

CAMILLO 

There is an obsolete and doubtful law 
By which you might obtain a bare provision 
Of food and clothing. 

giacomo 
Nothing more ? Alas ! 
Bare must be the provision which strict 

law 
Awards, and aged sullen avarice pays. 
Why did my father not apprentice me 
To some mechanic trade ? I should have 

then 
Been trained in no highborn necessities 
Which I could meet not by my daily toil. 
The eldest son of a rich nobleman 10 



222 



THE CENCI 



ACT II : SC. II 



Is heir to all his incapacities; 

He has wide wants, and narrow powers. 

If you, 
Cardinal Camillo, were reduced at once 
From thrice-driven beds of down, and deli- 
cate food. 
An hundred servants, and six palaces. 
To that which nature doth indeed re- 
quire ? — 

CAMILLO 

Nay, there is reason in your plea; 't were 
hard. 

GLA.COMO 

'T is hard for a firm man to bear ; but I 
Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth, 
Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my father. 
Without a bond or witness to the deed; 21 
And children, who inherit her fine senses, 
The fairest creatures in this breathing 

world ; 
And she and they reproach me not. Cardi- 
nal, 
Do you not think the Pope will interpose 
And stretch authority beyond the law ? 

CAMILLO 

Though your peculiar case is hard, I know 
The Pope will not divert the course of law. 
After that impious feast the other night 
I spoke with him, and urged him then to 
check 30 

Your father's cruel hand; he frowned and 

said, 
* Children are disobedient, and they sting 
Their fathers' hearts to madness and de- 
spair, 
Requiting years of care with contumely. 
I pity the Count Cenci from my heart; 
His outraged love perhaps awakened hate, 
And thus he is exasperated to ill. 
In the great war between the old and young, 
I, who have white hairs and a tottering 

body. 
Will keep at least blameless neutrality.' 40 

Enter Orsino 
You, my good lord Orsino, heard those 
words. 



What words ? 



orsino 



GIACOMO 



Alas, repeat them not again ! 
There then is no redress for me ; at least 



None but that which I may achieve myself, 
Since I am driven to the brink. — But, say, 
My innocent sister and my only brother 
Are dying underneath my father's eye. 
The memorable torturers of this land, 
Galeaz Visconti, Borgia, Ezzelin, 
Never inflicted on their meanest slave 50 
What these endure; shall they have no 
protection ? 

CAMILLO 

Why, if they would petition to the Pope, 
I see not how he could refuse it; yet 
He holds it of most dangerous example 
In aught to weaken the paternal power. 
Being, as 't were, the shadow of his own, 
I pray you now excuse me. I have busi- 
ness 
That vv^ill not bear delay. 

[Exit Camillo. 

GIACOMO 

But you, Orsino, 
Have the petition; wherefore not present it ? 

ORSINO 

I have presented it, and backed it with 60 
My earnest prayers and urgent interest; 
It was returned unanswered. I doubt not 
But that the strange and execrable deeds 
Alleged in it — in truth they might well 

baffle 
Any belief — have turned the Pope's dis- 
pleasure 
Upon the accusers from the criminal. 
Sol should guess from what Camillo said. 

GIACOMO 

My friend, that palace-walking devil, Gold, 
Has whispered silence to His Holiness; 
And we are left, as scorpions ringed with 

fire. 70 

What should we do but strike ourselves to 

death ? 
For he who is our murderous persecutor 
Is shielded by a father's holy name. 
Or I would — 

[Stops abruptly. 

ORSINO 

What ? Fear not to speak your thought. 

Words are but holy as the deeds the}' cover; 

A priest who has forsworn the God he 
serves, 

A judge who makes Truth weep at his de- 
cree. 



ACT II : SC. II 



THE CENCI 



223 



A friend who should weave counsel, as I 

now, 
But as the mantle of some selfish guile, 
A father who is all a tyrant seems, — 80 
Were the profaner for his sacred name. 

GIACOMO 

Ask me not what I think; the unwilling 

brain 
Feigns often what it would not; and we 

trust 
Imagination with such fantasies 
As the tongue dares not fashion into words — 
Which have no words, their horror makes 

them dim 
To the mind's eye. My heart denies itself 
To think what you demand. 

ORSINO 

But a friend's bosom 
Is as the inmost cave of our own mind. 
Where we sit shut from the wide gaze of 
day 90 

And from the all-communicating air. 
You look what I suspected — 

GIACOMO 

Spare me now ! 
I am as one lost in a midnight wood, 
Who dares not ask some harmless passen- 
ger 
The path across the wilderness, lest he. 
As my thoughts are, should be — a mur- 
derer. 
I know you are my friend, and all I dare 
Speak to my soul that will I trust with 

thee. 
But now my heart is heavy, and would take 
Lone counsel from a night of sleepless 
care. 100 

Pardon me that I say farewell — farewell ! 
I would that to my own suspected self 
I could address a word so full of peace. 

ORSINO 

Farewell ! — Be your thoughts better or 
more bold. 

[Exit GlACOMO, 

I had disposed the Cardinal Camillo 
To feed his hope with cold encouragement. 
It fortunately serves my close designs 
That 't is a trick of this same family 
To analyze their own and other minds. 
Such self-anatomy shall teach the v/ill no 



Dangerous secrets; for it tempts our 

powers, 
Knowing what must be thought, and may 

be done. 
Into the depth of darkest purposes. 
So Cenci fell into the pit; even I, 
Since Beatrice unveiled me to myself, 
And made me shrink from what I cannot 

shun, 
Show a poor figure to my own esteem. 
To which I grow half reconciled. I '11 do 
As little mischief as I can; that thought 
Shall fee the accuser conscience. 

{After a pause) 

Now what harm 

If Cenci should be murdered ? — Yet, if 

murdered, 121 

Wherefore by me ? And what if I could 

take 
The profit, yet omit the sin and peril 
In such an action ? Of all earthly things 
I fear a man whose blows outspeed his 

words ; 
And such is Cenci; and, while Cenci lives, 
His daughter's dowry were a secret grave 
If a priest wins her. — O fair Beatrice ! 
Would that I loved thee not, or, loving 

thee. 
Could but despise danger and gold and 

all 130 

That frowns between my wish and its 

effect, 
Or smiles beyond it! There is no escape; 
Her bright form kneels beside me at the 

altar, 
And follows me to the resort of men. 
And fills my slumber with tumultuous 

dreams. 
So when I wake my blood seems liquid 

fire; 
And if I strike my damp and dizzy head, 
My hot palm scorches it; her very name. 
But spoken by a stranger, makes my heart 
Sicken and pant; and thus unprofitably 140 
I clasp the phantom of unfelt delights 
Till weak imagination half possesses 
The self-created shadow. Yet much longer 
Will I not nurse this life of feverous hours. 
From the unravelled hopes of Giacomo 
I must work out my own dear purposes. 
I see, as from a tower, the end of all: 
Her father dead; her brother bound to 

me 
By a dark secret, surer than the grave; 
Her mother scared and unexpostulating 150 



224 



THE CENCI 



ACT III : sc. I 



From the dread manner of her wish 

achieved ; 
And she ! — Once more take courage, my 

faint heart; 
What dares a friendless maiden matched 

with thee ? 
I have such foresight as assures success. 
Some unbeheld divinity doth ever, 
When dread events are near, stir up men's 

minds 
To black suggestions; and he prospers 

best, 
Not who becomes the instrument of ill. 
But who can flatter the dark spirit that 

makes 
Its empire and its prey of other hearts i6o 
Till it become his slave — as I will do. 

[Exit 

ACT III 

Scene I. — An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. 
LucRETiA ; to her enter Beatrice. 

BEATRICE (she enters staggering and speaks 
wildly) 

Reach me that handkerchief ! — My brain 

is hurt; 
My eyes are full of blood; just wipe them 

for me — 
I see but indistinctly. 

LUCRETIA 

My sweet child, 
You have no wound; 't is only a cold dew 
That starts from your dear brow. — Alas, 

alas ! 
What has befallen ? 

BEATRICE 

How comes this hair undone ? 
Its wandering strings must be what blind 

me so, 
And yet I tied it fast. — Oh, horrible ! 
The pavement sinks under my feet ! The 

walls 
Spin round ! I see a woman weeping 

there, lo 

And standing calm and motionless, whilst I 
Slide giddily as the world reels. — My 

God! 
The beautiful blue heaven is flecked with 

blood ! 
The sunshine on the floor is black ! The 

air 



mg air 



Is changed to vapors such as the dead 

breathe 
In charnel-pits ! Pah ! I am choked ! 

There creeps 
A clinging, black, contaminating mist 
About me — 't is substantial, heavy, thick; 
I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues 
My fingers and my limbs to one another, 20 
And eats into my sinews, and dissolves 
My flesh to a pollution, poisoning 
The subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of life ! 
My God ! I never knew what the mad felt 
Before; for I am mad beyond all doubt ! 

{More wildly) 
No, I am dead ! These putrefying limbs 
Shut round and sepulchre the panting soul 
Which would burst forth into the wander- 
! 

(A pause) 
What hideous thought was that I had even 

now ? 29 

'Tis gone; and yet its burden remains here 
O'er these dull eyes — upon this weary 

heart ! 

world ! O life ! O day ! O misery ! 

LUCRETIA 

What ails thee, my poor child ? She an- 
swers not. 
Her spirit apprehends the sense of pain. 
But not its cause; sufPering has dried away 
The source from which it sprung. 

BEATRICE (frantically) 

Like Parricide — 
Misery has killed its father; yet its father 
Never like mine — O God ! what thing 
am I? 

LUCRETIA 

My dearest child, what has your father 
done ? 

BEATRICE (doubtfully) 

Who art thou, questioner ? I have no 
father. 40 

[Aside. 

She is the madhouse nurse who tends on 
me. 

It is a piteous office. 

(To LucRETiA, in a slow, subdued voice) 
Do you know, 

1 thought I was that wretched Beatrice 
Men speak of, whom her father sometimes 

hales 



ACT III: SC. I 



THE CENCI 



225 



From hall to hall by the entangled hair; 
At others, pens up naked in damp cells 
Where scaly reptiles crawl, and starves her 

there 
Till she will eat strange flesh. This woful 

story 
So did I overact in my sick dreams 
That I imagined — no, it cannot be ! 50 

Horrible things have been in this wild 

world. 
Prodigious mixtures, and confusions strange 
Of good and ill; and worse have been con- 
ceived 
Than ever there was found a heart to do. 
But never fancy imaged such a deed 
.\s — 

(Pauses, suddenly recollecting herself) 
Who art thou ? Swear to me, ere I die 
With fearful expectation, that indeed 
Thou art not what thou seemest — Mother ! 



Oh! 



liUCBBTIA 

My sweet child, know you — 

BEATRICE 

Yet speak it not; 
For then if this be truth, that other too 60 
Must be a truth, a firm enduring truth, 
Linked with each lasting circumstance of 

life, 
Never to change, never to pass away. 
Why so it is. This is the Cenci Palace; 
Thou art Lucretia; I am Beatrice. 
I have talked some wild words, but will 

no more. 
Mother, come near me; from this point of 

time, 
I am — 

(Her voice dies away faintly) 

liUCRETIA 

Alas ! what has befallen thee, child ? 
What has thy father done ? 

BEATRICE 

What have I done ? 
Am I not innocent ? Is it my crime 70 
Thatone with white hair and imperious brow. 
Who tortured me from my forgotten years 
As parents only dare, should call himself 
My father, yet should be ! — Oh, what am I? 
What name, what place, what memory 

shall be mine ? 
What retrospects, outliving even despair ? 



LUCRETIA 

He is a violent tyrant, surely, child; 

We know that death alone can make us 

free; 
His death or ours. But what can he have 

done 
Of deadlier outrage or worse injury ? 80 
Thou art unlike thyself; thine eyes shoot 

forth 
A wandering and strange spirit. Speak to 

me, 
Unlock those pallid hands whose fingers 

twine 
With one another. 

BEATRICE 

'T is the restless life 
Tortured within them. If I try to speak, 
I shall go mad. Ay, something must be 

done; 
What, yet I know not — something which 

shall make 
The thing that I have suffered but a shadow 
In the dread lightning which avenges it; 
Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroying 90 

The consequence of what it cannot cure. 
Some such thing is to be endured or done; 
When I know what, I shall be still and 

calm. 
And never anything will move me more. 
But now ! — O blood, which art my father's 

blood. 
Circling through these contaminated veins, 
If thou, poured forth on the polluted earth. 
Could wash away the crime and punish- 
ment 
By which I suffer — no, that cannot be ! 99 
Many might doubt there were a God above 
Who sees and permits evil, and so die; 
That faith no agony shall obscure in me. 

LUCRETIA 

It must indeed have been some bitter wrong; 
Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh, my lost 

child. 
Hide not in proud impenetrable grief 
Thy sufferings from my fear. 

BEATRICE 

I hide them not. 
What are the words which you would have 

me speak ? 
I, who can feign no image in my mind 
Of that which has transformed me; I, 

whose thought 



226 



THE CENCI 



ACT III : SC. I 



Is like a ghost shrouded and folded up no 
In its own formless horror — of all words, 
That minister to mortal intercourse, 
Which wouldst thou hear ? for there is 

none to tell 
My misery; if another ever knew 
Aught like to it, she died as I will die, 
And left it, as I must, without a name. 
Death, death ! our law and our religion 

call thee 
A punishment and a reward; oh, which 
Have I deserved ? 

LUCRETIA 

The peace of innocence, 
Till in your season you be called to heaven. 
Whate'er you may have suffered, you have 

done 121 

No evil. Death must be the punishment 
Of crime, or the reward of trampling down 
The thorns which God has strewed upon 

the path 
Which leads to immortality. 

BEATRICE 

Ay, death — 
The punishment of crime. I pray thee, 

God, 
Let me not be bewildered while I judge. 
If I must live day after day, and keep 
These limbs, the unworthy temple of thy 

spirit, 
As a foul den from which what thou abhor- 

rest 130 

May mock thee unavenged — it shall not 

be ! 
Self-murder — no, that might be no escape. 
For thy decree yawns like a Hell between 
Our will and it. — Oh ! in this mortal 

world 
There is no vindication and no law. 
Which can adjudge and execute the doom 
Of that through which I suffer. 

Enter Orsino 
{She approaches him solemnly) 

Welcome, friend ! 
I have to tell you that, since last we met, 
I have endured a wrong so great and 

strange 
That neither life nor death can give me 

rest. 140 

Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds 
Which have no form, sufferings which have 

no tongue. 



ORSINO 

And what is he who has thus injured you ? 

BEATRICE 

The man they call my father; a dread 



name. 



It cannot be 



ORSINO 



BEATRICE 



What it can be, or not. 
Forbear to think. It is, and it has been ; 
Advise me how it shall not be again. 
I thought to die; but a religious awe 
Restrains me, and the dread lest death 
itself 149 

Might be no refuge from the consciousness 
Of what is yet unexpiated. Oh, speak ! 

ORSINO 

Accuse him of the deed, and let the law 
Avenge thee. 

BEATRICE 

Oh, ice-hearted counsellor ! 
If I could find a word that might make 

known 
The crime of my destroyer; and that done. 
My tongue should like a knife tear out the 

secret 
Which cankers my heart's core; ay, lay all 

bare. 
So that my unpolluted fame should be 
With vilest gossips a stale mouthed story; 
A mock, a byword, an astonishment: — 160 
If this were done, which never shall be 

done, 
Think of the offender's gold, his dreaded 

hate. 
And the strange horror of the accuser's 

tale, 
Baffling belief, and overpowering speech; 
Scarce whispered, unimaginable, wrapped 
In hideous hints — Oh, most assured re- 
dress ! 

ORSINO 

You will endure it then ? 

BEATRICE 

Endure ! — Orsino, 
It seems your counsel is small profit. 

{Turns from him, and speaks half to herself) 

Ay, 
All must be suddenly reaolved and done. 



ACT III. SC. I 



THE CENCI 



227 



What is this undistinguishable mist 170 

Of thoughts, which rise, like shadow after 

shadow, 
Darkening each other ? 

ORSINO 

Should the offender live ? 
Triumph in his misdeed ? and make, by 

use, 
His crime, whate'er it is, dreadful no 

doubt. 
Thine element; until thou mayest become 
Utterly lost; subdued even to the hue 
Of tliat which thou permittest ? 

BEATRICE {to herself) 

Mighty death ! 
Thou double-visaged shadow ! only judge ! 
Rightfullest arbiter ! 

{She retires, absorbed in thought) 

liUCRETIA 

If the lightning 
Of God has e'er descended to avenge — 

ORSINO 

Blaspheme not ! His high Providence 
commits 18 1 

Its glory on this earth and their own 
wrongs 

Into the hands of men; if they neglect 

To punish crime — 

LUCRETIA 

But if one, like this wretch, 
Should mock with gold opinion, law and 

power ? 
If there be no appeal to that which makes 
The guiltiest tremble ? if, because our 

wrongs. 
For that they are unnatural, strange and 

monstrous. 
Exceed all measure of belief ? Oh, God ! 
If, for the very reasons which should make 
Redress most swift and sure, our injurer 
triumphs ? 191 

And we, the victims, bear worse punish- 
ment 
Than that appointed for their torturer ? 

ORSINO 

Think not 
But that there is redress where there is 

wrong. 
So we be bold enough to seize it. 



LUCRETIA 

How? 
If there were any way to make all sure, 
I know not — but I think it might be good 
To — 

ORSINO 

Why, his late outrage to Beatrice — 
For it is such, as I but faintly guess, 199 
As makes remorse dishonor, and leaves 

her 
Only one duty, how she may avenge; 
You, but one refuge from ills ill endured; 
Me, but one counsel — 

LUCRETIA 

For we cannot hope 
That aid, or retribution, or resource 
Will arise thence, where every other one 
Might find them with less need. 

[Beatrice advances. 

ORSINO 

Then — 

BEATRICE 

Peace, Orsino ! 
And, honored Lady, while I speak, I pray 
That you put off, as garments overworn, 
Forbearance and respect, remorse and fear, 
And all the fit restraints of daily life, 210 
Which have been borne from childhood, 

but which now 
Would be a mockery to my holier plea. 
As I have said, I have endured a wrong. 
Which, though it be expressionless, is such 
As asks atonement, both for what is passed, 
And lest I be reserved, day after day. 
To load with crimes an overburdened soul, 
And be — what ye can dream not. I have 

prayed 
To God, and I have talked with my own 

heart. 
And have unravelled my entangled will, 220 
And have at length determined what is 

right. 
Art thou my friend, Orsino ? False or 

true ? 
Pledge thy salvation ere I speak. 

ORSINO 

T swear 
To dedicate my cunning, and my strength, 
My silence, and whatever else is mine, 
To thy commands. 



228 



THE CENCI 



ACT III : sc. 1 



LUCRETIA 

You think we should devise 



His death ? 



BEATKICE 

And execute what is devised, 
And suddenly. We must be brief and 
bold. 

ORSINO 

And yet most cautious. 

LUCRETIA 

For the jealous laws 
Would punish us with death and infamy 230 
For that which it became themselves to do. 

BEATRICE 

Be cautious as ye may, but prompt. Or- 

sino, 
What are the means ? 

ORSINO 

I know two dull, fierce outlaws. 
Who think man's spirit as a worm's, and 

they 
Would trample out, for any slight caprice. 
The meanest or the noblest life. This 

mood 
Is marketable here in Rome. They sell 
What we now want. 

LUCRETIA 

To-morrow, before dawn, 
Cenci will take us to that lonely rock, 
Petrella, in the Apulian Apennines. 240 

If he arrive there — 

BEATRICE 

He must not arrive. 

ORSINO 

Will it be dark before you reach the 
tower ? 

LUCRETIA 

The sun will scarce be set. 

BEATRICE 

But I remember 
Two miles on this side of the fort the road 
Crosses a deep ravine; 't is rough and nar- 
row. 
And winds with short turns down the pre- 
cipice ; 



And in its depth there is a mighty rock, 
Which has, from unimaginable years. 
Sustained itself with terror and with toil 
Over a gulf, and with the agony 250 

With which it clings seems slowly coming 

down; 
Even as a wretched soul hour after hour 
Clings to the mass of life; yet, clinging, 

leans; 
And, leaning, makes more dark the dread 

abyss 
In which it fears to fall; beneath this 

crag 
Huge as despair, as if in weariness. 
The melancholy mountain yawns; below. 
You hear but see not an impetuous torrent 
Raging among the caverns, and a bridge 
Crosses the chasm; and high above there 

grow, 260 

With intersecting trunks, from crag to 

crag, 
Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose tan- 
gled hair 
Is matted in one solid roof of shade 
By the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here 
'T is twilight, and at sunset blackest night. 

ORSINO 

Before you reach that bridge make some 

excuse 
For spurring on your mules, or loitering 
Until — 

BEATRICE 

What sound is that ? 

LUCRETIA 

Hark ! No, it cannot be a servant's step; 
It must be Cenci, unexpectedly 270 

Returned — make some excuse for being 
here. 

BEATRICE {to ORSINO as she goes out) 

That step we hear approach must never 

pass 
The bridge of which we spoke. 

[Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice. 

ORSINO 

What shall I do ? 
Cenci must find me here, and I must bear 
The imperious inquisition of his looks 
As to what brought me hither; let me 

mask 
Mine own in some inane and vacant smile. 



ACT III : SC. I 



THE CENCI 



229 



Enter Giacomo, in a hurried manner 
How ! have you ventured hither ? know 
you then 278 

That Cenci is from home ? 

GIACOMO 

I sought him here ; 
And now must wait till he returns. 

OKSINO 

Great God ! 
Weigh you the danger of this rashness ? 

GIACOMO 

Ay! 
Does my destroyer know his danger ? We 
Are now no more, as once, parent and 

child, 
But man to man; the oppressor to the op- 
pressed, 
The slanderer to the slandered; foe to foe. 
He has cast Nature off, which was his 

shield. 
And Nature casts him off, who is her 

shame; 
And I spurn both. Is it a father's throat 
Which I will shake, and say, I ask not 

gold; 
I ask not happy years ; nor memories 290 
Of tranquil childhood; nor home-sheltered 

love; 
Though all these hast thou torn from me, 

and more; 
But only my fair fame; only one hoard 
Of peace, which I thought hidden from thy 

hate 
Under the penury heaped on me by thee; 
Or I will — God can understand and pardon, 
Why should I speak with man ? 

ORSINO 

Be calm, dear friend. 

GIACOMO 

Well, I will calmly tell you what he did. 
This old Francesco Cenci, as you know. 
Borrowed the dowry of my wife from me. 
And then denied the loan; and left me so 
In poverty, the which I sought to mend 
By holding a poor office in the state. 303 
It had been promised to me, and already 
I bought new clothing for my ragged babes. 
And my wife smiled; and my heart knew 

repose; 
When Cenci's intercession, as I found, 



Conferred this office on a wretch, whom 

thus 
He paid for vilest service. I returned 
With this ill news, and we sate sad to= 

gether 310 

Solacing our despondency with tears 
Of such affection and unbroken faith 
As temper life's worst bitterness; when he, 
As he is wont, came to upbraid and curse, 
Mocking our poverty, and telling us 
Such was God's scourge for disobedient 

sons. 
And then, that I might strike him dumb 

with shame, 
I spoke of my wife's dowry; but he coined 
A brief yet specious tale, how I had wasted 
The sum in secret riot; and he saw 320 

My wife was touched, and he went smiling 

forth. 
And when I knew the impression he had 

made. 
And felt my wife insult with silent scorn 
My ardent truth, and look averse and cold, 
I went forth too; but soon returned again; 
Yet not so soon but that my wife had taught 
My children her harsh thoughts, and they 

all cried, 
' Give us clothes, father ! Give us better 

food! 
What you in one night squander were 

enough 
For months ! ' I looked, and saw that 

home was hell. 330 

And to that hell will I return no more. 
Until mine enemy has rendered up 
Atonement, or, as he gave life to me, 
I will, reversing Nature's law — 

ORSINO 

Trust me, 
The compensation which thou seekest here 
Will be denied. 

GIACOMO 

Then — Are you not my friend *? 
Did you not hint at the alternative. 
Upon the brink of which you see I stand, 
The other day when we conversed together ? 
My wrongs were then less. That word, 

parricide, 340 

Although I am resolved, haunts me like 

fear. 

ORSIKO 

It mtist be fear itself, for the bare word 
Is hollow mockery. Mark how wisest God 



230 



THE CENCI 



ACT III : SCc II 



Draws to one point the threads of a just 

doom, 
So sanctifying it; what you devise 
Is, as it were, accomplished. 



GIACOMO 



Is he dead ? 



ORSINO 

His grave is ready. Know that since we 

met 
Cenci has done an outrage to his daughter. 



What outrage ? 



GIACOMO 



ORSINO 



That she speaks not, but you may 
Conceive such half conjectures as I do 350 
From her fixed paleness, and the lofty 

grief 
Of her stern brow, bent on the idle air, 
And her severe unmodulated voice. 
Drowning both tenderness and dread; and 

last 
From this; that whilst her step-mother and I, 
Bewildered in our horror, talked together 
With obscure hints, both self-misunder- 
stood. 
And darkly guessing, stumbling, in our talk. 
Over the truth and yet to its revenge. 
She interrupted us, and with a look 360 

Which told, before she spoke it, he must 
die — 

GIACOMO 

It is enough. My doubts are well appeased ; 
There is a higher reason for the act 
Than mine; there is a holier judge than 

me, 
A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice, 
Who in the gentleness of thy sweet youth 
Hast never trodden on a worm, or bruised 
A living flower, but thou hast pitied it 
With needless tears ! fair sister, thou in 

whom 
Men wondered how such loveliness and wis- 
dom 370 
Did not destroy each other ! is there made 
Ravage of thee ? O heart, I ask no more 
Justification ! Shall I wait, Orsino, 
Till he return, and stab him at the door ? 

ORSINO 

Not so; some accident might interpose 
To rescue him from what is now most sure; 



And you are unprovided where to fly. 
How to excuse or to conceal. Nay, listen; 
All is contrived; success is so assured 
That — 

Enter Beatrice 

BEATRICE 

'T is my brother's voice ! You know me 
not ? 38a 

GIACOMO 

My sister, my lost sister ! 

BEATRICE 

Lost indeed ! 
I see Orsino has talked with you, and 
That you conjecture things too horrible 
To speak, yet far less than the truth. Now 

stay not, 
He might return; yet kiss me; I shall 

know 
That then thou hast consented to his death. 
Farewell, farewell ! Let piety to God, 
Brotherly love, justice and clemency. 
And all things that make tender hardest 

hearts. 
Make thine hard, brother. Answer not — 

farewell. zgr^ 

[Exeunt severally, 

Scene II. — A mean Apartment in Giacomo's 
House. GiACOMO alone. 

GIACOMO 

'T is midnight, and Orsino comes not yet. 

{Thunder, and the sound of a storm) 
What ! can the everlasting elements 
Feel with a worm like man ? If so, the 

shaft 
Of mercy-wingfed lightning would not fall 
On stones and trees. My wife and children 

sleep; 
They are now living in unmeaning dreams; 
But I must wake, still doubting if that 

deed 
Be just which was most necessary. Oh, 
Thou unreplenished lamp, whose narrow 

fire 9 

Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge 
Devouring darkness hovers ! thou small 

flame. 
Which, as a dying pulse rises and falls. 
Still Hickerest up and down, how very 

soon. 
Did I not feed thee, wouldst thou fail and be 



ACT III : SC. II 



THE CENCI 



231 



As thou hadst never been ! So wastes and 

sinks 
]Even now, perhaps, the life that kindled 

mine; 
But that no power can fill with vital oil, — 
That broken lamp of flesh. Ha ! 't is the 

blood 
Which fed these veins that ebbs till all is 

cold; 
It is the form that moulded mine that 

sinks 20 

Into the white and yellow spasms of death; 
It is the soul by which mine was arrayed 
In God's immortal likeness which now 

stands 
Naked before Heaven's judgment-seat ! 

(A bell strikes) 

One ! Two ! 

The hours crawl on; and, when my hairs 

are white, 
My son will then perhaps be waiting thus. 
Tortured between just hate and vain re- 
morse; 
Chiding the tardy messenger of news 
Like those which I expect. I almost wish 
He be not dead, although my wrongs are 

great; ^ 30 

Yet — 't is Orsino's step. 

Enter Orsino 

Speak ! 

ORSINO 

I am come 
To say he has escaped. 

GIACOMO 

Escaped ! 

ORSINO 

And safe 
Within Petrella. He passed by the spot 
Appointed for the deed an hour too soon. 

GIACOMO 

Are we the fools of such contingencies ? 
And do we waste in blind misgivings thus 
The hours when we should act ? Then 

wind and thunder, 
Which seemed to howl his knell, is the 

loud laughter 
With which Heaven mocks our weakness ! 

I henceforth 
Will ne'er repent of aught designed or 

done, 40 

But my repentance. 



ORSINO 

See, the lamp is out. 

GIACOMO 

If no remorse is ours when the dim air 
Has drunk this innocent flame, why should 

we quail 
When Cenci's life, that light by which ill 

spirits 
See the worst deeds they prompt, shall sink 

forever ? 
No, I am hardened. 

ORSINO 

Why, what need of this ? 
Who feared the pale intrusion of remorse 
In a just deed ? Although our first plan 

failed, 
Doubt not but he will soon be laid to rest. 
But light the lamp; let us not talk i' the 

dark. 50 

GIACOMO (lighting the lamp) 

And yet, once quenched, I cannot thus re- 
lume 

My father's life; do you not think his 
ghost 

Might plead that argument with God ? 

ORSINO 

Once gone, 

You cannot now recall your sister's peace; 

Your own extinguished years of youth and 
hope ; 

Nor your wife's bitter words; nor all the 
taunts 

Which, from the prosperous, weak misfor- 
tune takes; 

Nor your dead mother; nor — 

GIACOMO 

Oh, speak no more ! 
I am resolved, although this very hand 
Must quench the life that animated it. 60 

ORSINO 

There is no need of that. Listen; you 

know 
Olimpio, the castellan of Petrella 
In old Colonna's time; him whom your 

father 
Degraded from his post ? And Marzio, 
That desperate wretch, whom he deprived 

last year 
Of a reward of blood, well earned and due ? 



232 



THE CENCI 



ACT IV : SC. 1 



GIACOMO 

I knew Olimpio ; and they say he hated 
Old Cenci so, that in his silent rage 
His lips grew white only to see him pass. 
Of Marzio I know nothing. 

OKSINO 

Marzio's hate 
Matches Olimpio's. I have sent these men, 
But in your name, and as at your request. 
To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia. 73 



GIACOMO 



Only to talk ? 



ORSINO 

The moments which even now 
Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight hour 
May memorize their flight with death; ere 

then 
They must have talked, and may perhaps 

have done, 
And made an end. 

GIACOMO 

Listen ! What sound is that ? 

ORSINO 

The house-dog moans, and the beams 
crack; nought else. 

GIACOMO 

It is my wife complaining in her sleep; 80 

I doubt not she is saying bitter things 

Of me; and all my children round her 

dreaming 
That I deny them sustenance. 

ORSINO 

Whilst he 
Who truly took it from them, and who 

fills 
Their hungry rest with bitterness, now 

sleeps 
Lapped in bad pleasures, and triumphantly 
Mocks thee in visions of successful hate 
Too like the truth of day. 

GIACOMO 

If e'er he wakes 
Again, I will not trust to hireling hands — 

ORSINO 

Why, that were well. I must be gone; 



good night 



When next we meet, may all be done ! 



90 



GIACOMO 

And all 
Forgotten ! Oh, that I had never been ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

Scene I. — An Apartment in the Castle of Pe- 
trella. Enter Cenci. 

CENCI 

She comes not; yet I left her even now 

Vanquished and faint. She knows the 
penalty 

Of her delay; yet what if threats are vain? 

Am I not now within Petrella's moat ? 

Or fear I still the eyes and ears of Rome ? 

Might I not drag her by the golden hair ? 

Stamp on her ? keep her sleepless till her 
brain 

Be overworn ? tame her with chains and 
famine ? 

Less would suffice. Yet so to leave un- 
done 

What I most seek ! No, 't is her stubborn 
will, 10 

Which, by its own consent, shall stoop as 
low 

As that which drags it down. 

Enter Lucretia 

Thou loathed wretch ! 
Hide thee from my abhorrence; fly, be- 
gone ! 
Yet stay ! Bid Beatrice come hither. 

LUCRETIA 

Oh, 
Husband ! I pray, for thine own wretched 

sake. 
Heed what thou dost. A man who walks 

like thee 
Through crimes, and through the danger 

of his crimes. 
Each hour may stumble o'er a sudden 

grave. 
And thou art old; thy hairs are hoary gray; 
As thou wouldst save thyself from death 

and hell, 20 

Pity thy daughter; give her to some friend 
In marriage; so that she may tempt thee 

not 
To hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse 

there be. 



ACT IV : sc. I 



THE CENCI 



233 



CENCI 

What ! like her sister, who has found a 

home 
To mock my hate from with prosperity ? 
Strange ruin shall destroy both her and 

thee, 
And all that yet remain. My death may 

be 
Rapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go, 
Bid her come hither, and before my mood 
Be changed, lest I should drag her by the 

hair. 30 

LUCRETIA 

She sent me to thee, husband. At thy pre- 
sence 

She fell, as thou dost know, into a trance; 

And in that trance she heard a voice which 
said, 

* Cenci must die ! Let him confess him- 
self ! 

Even now the accusing Angel waits to 
hear 

If God, to punish his enormous crimes, 

Harden his dying heart ! ' 

CENCI 

Why — such things are. 

No doubt divine revealings may be made. 

'T is plain I have been favored from above. 

For when I cursed my sons, they died. — 
Ay — so. 40 

As to the right or wrong, that 's talk. Re- 
pentance ? 

Repentance is an easy moment's work, 

And more depends on God than me. Well 
— well — 

I must give up the greater point, which was 

To poison and corrupt her soul. 

{A pause; Luckbtia approaches anxiously, 
and then shrinks back as he speaks) 

One, two; 
Ay — Rocco and Cristofano my curse 
Strangled; and Giacorao, I think, will find 
Life a worse Hell than that beyond the 

grave ; 
Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate, 49 
Die in despair, blaspheming; to Bernardo, 
He is so innocent, I will bequeathe 
The memory of these deeds, and make his 

youth 
The sepulchre of hope, where evil thoughts 
Shall grow like weeds on a neglected tomb. 
When all is done, out in the wide Cam- 

pagna 



I will pile up my silver and my gold; 
My costly robes, paintings, and tapestries; 
My parchments, and all records of my 

wealth ; 
And make a bonfire in ray joy, and leave 
Of my possessions nothing but my name; 6a 
Which shall be an inheritance to strip 
Its wearer bare as infamy. That done. 
My soul, which is a scourge, will I resign 
Into the hands of Him who wielded it; 
Be it for its own punishment or theirs. 
He will not ask it of me till the lash 
Be broken in its last and deepest wound; 
Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet, 
Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me 

make 69 

Short work and sure. 

[Going. 
i/UCRETiA (stops him) 

Oh, stay ! it was a feint: 
She had no vision, and she heard no voice. 
I said it but to awe thee. 

CENCI 

That is well. 
Vile palterer with the sacred truth of God, 
Be thy soul choked with that blaspheming 

lie! 
For Beatrice worse terrors are in store 
To bend her to my will. 

LUCRETIA 

Oh, to what will ? 
What cruel sufferings more than she has 

known 
Canst thou inflict ? 

CENCI 

Andrea ! go, call my daughter 
And if she comes not, tell her that I come. 

[To Lucretia) 
What sufferings ? I will drag her, step by 

step, 8c 

Through infamies unheard of among men; 
She shall stand shelterless in the broad 

noon 
Of public scorn, for acts blazoned abroad. 
One among which shall be — what ? canst 

thou guess ? 
She shall become (for what she most abhors 
Shall have a fascination to entrap 
Her loathing will) to her own conscious self 
All she appears to others; and when dead. 
As she shall die unshrived and unforgiven. 



234 



THE CENCI 



ACT IV : SC. I 



A rebel to her father and her God, 90 

Her corpse shall be abandoned to the 

hounds ; 
Her name shall be the terror of the earth; 
Her spirit shall approach the throne of 

God 
Plague-spotted with my curses. I will 

make 
Body and soul a monstrous lump of ruin. 

Enter Andrea 

ANDREA 

The Lady Beatrice — 



Said she ? 



CENCI 

Speak, pale slave ! what 



ANDREA 

My Lord, 'twas what she looked; she 
said, 
* Go tell my father that I see the gulf 
Of Hell between us two, which he may 
pass ; 99 

I will not.' 

\_Exit Andrea. 

CENCI 

Go thou quick, Lucretia, 
Tell her to come ; yet let her understand 
Her coming is consent; and say, moreover. 
That if she come not I will curse her. 

\_Eont Lucretia. 

Ha! 
With what but with a father's curse doth 

God 
Panic-strike arm^d victory, and make pale 
Cities in their prosperity ? The world's 

Father 
Must grant a parent's prayer against his 

child, 
Be he who asks even what men call me. 
Will not the deaths of her rebellious 

brothers 
Awe her before I speak ? for I on them no 
Did imprecate quick ruin, and it came. 

Enter Lucretia 
Well; what ? Speak, wretch ! 

lucretia 

She said, * I cannot come; 
Go tell my father that I see a torrent 
Of hia own blood raging between us.' 



CENCI {kneeling) 

God, 
Hear me ! If this most specious mass of 

flesh, 
Which thou hast made my daughter; this 

my blood. 
This particle of my divided being; 
Or rather, this my bane and my disease, 
Whose sight infects and poisons me; thie 

devil. 
Which sprung from me as from a hell, was 

meant 12a 

To aught good use; if her bright loveliness 
Was kindled to illumine this dark world; 
If, nursed by thy selectest dew of love, 
Such virtues blossom in her as should make 
The peace of life, I pray thee for my sake, 
As thou the common God and Father art 
Of her, and me, and all ; reverse that doom ! 
Earth, in the name of God, let her food be 
Poison, until she be encrusted round 
With leprous stains ! Heaven, rain upon 

her head 130 

The blistering drops of the Maremma's 

dew 
Till she be speckled like a toad; parch up 
Those love-enkindled lips, warp those fine 

limbs 
To loathed lameness ! All-beholding sun. 
Strike in thine envy those life-darting eyes 
With thine own blinding beams ! 

lucretia 

Peace, peace ! 
For thine own sake unsay those dreadful 

words. 
When high God grants, he punishes such 
prayers. 138 

CBNCi {leaping up, and throwing his right hand 
towards Heaven) 

He does his will, I mine ! This in addition, 
That if she have a child — 

LUCRETIA 

Horrible thought ) 

CENCI 

That if she ever have a child — and thou, 
Quick Nature ! I adjure thee by thy God, 
That thou be fruitful in her, and increase 
And multiply, fulfilling his command. 
And my deep imprecation ! — may it be 
A hideous likeness of herself; that as 
From a distorting mirror she may see 



ACT IV : SC. II 



THE CENCI 



235 



Her image mixed with what she most ab- 
hors, 

Smiling upon her from her nursing breast ! 

And that the child may from its infancy 

Grow, day by day, more wicked and de- 
formed, 151 

Turning her mother's love to misery ! 

And that both she and it may live until 

It shall repay her care and pain with hate. 

Or what may else be more unnatural; 

So he may hunt her through the clamorous 
scoffs 

Of the loud world to a dishonored grave ! 

Shall I revoke this curse ? Go, bid her 
come. 

Before my words are chronicled in heaven. 

[Exit LUCRETIA. 

I do not feel as if I were a man, 160 

But like a fiend appointed to chastise 
The offences of some unremembered world. 
My blood is running up and down my veins; 
A fearful pleasure makes it prick and tin- 
gle; 
I feel a giddy sickness of strange awe; 
My heart is beating with an expectation 
Of horrid joy. 

Enter Lucketia 
What ? Speak ! 

liUCKETIA 

She bids thee curse; 
And if thy curses, as they cannot do, 
Could kill her soul — 

CENCI 

She would not come. 'T is well, 
I can do both; first take what I demand. 
And then extort concession. To thy 

chamber ! 171 

Fly ere I spurn thee; and beware this night 
That thou cross not my footsteps. It were 

safer 
To come between the tiger and his prey. 

[Exit LUCRETIA. 

It must be late; mine eyes grow weary dim 
With unaccustomed heaviness of sleep. 
Conscience ! O thou most insolent of lies ! 
They say that sleep, that healing dew of 

heaven, 
Steeps not in balm the foldings of the brain 
Which thinks thee an impostor. I will go. 
First to belie thee with an hour of rest, 18 x 
Which will be deep and calm, I feel; and 

then — 



O multitudinous Hell, the fiends will shake 
Thine arches with the laughter of their joy ! 
There shall be lamentation heard in Hea- 
ven 
As o'er an angel fallen ; and upon Earth 
All good shall droop and sicken, and ill 

things 
Shall, with a spirit of unnatural life, 
Stir and be quickened — even as I am now. 

[Exit. 

Scene II. — Before the Castle of Petrella. 
Enter Beatrice and Lucretia above on the 
ramparts. 

BEATRICE 

They come not yet. 

LUCRETIA 

'T is scarce midnight. 

BEATRICE 

How slow 
Behind the course of thought, even sick 

with speed. 
Lags leaden-footed Time ! 

LUCRETIA 

The minutes pass. 
If he should wake before the deed is done ? 

BEATRICE 

O mother ! he must never wake again. 
What thou hast said persuades me that our 

act 
Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell 
Out of a human form. 

LUCRETIA 

'Tis true he spoke 
Of death and judgment with strange con-^ 

fidence 
For one so wicked; as a man believing 10 
In God, yet recking not of good or ill. 
And yet to die without confession ! — 

BEATRICE 

Oh! 
Believe that Heaven is merciful and just, 
And will not add our dread necessity 
To the amount of his offences. 

Enter Olimpio and Marzio below 

LUCRETIA 



They come. 



See, 



236 



THE CENCI 



ACT IV : SC. Ill 



BEATRICE 

All mortal things must hasten thus 
To their dark end. Let us go down. 
[Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice /ro/n above. 


Which God extinguish ! But ye are re- 
solved ? 
Ye know it is a high and holy deed ? 

OLIMPIO 


OLIMPIO 

How feel you to this work ? 


We are resolved. 

MARZIO 


MARZIO 

As one who thinks 
A thousand crowns excellent market price 
For an old murderer's life. Your cheeks 
are pale. 20 

OLIMPIO 

It is the white reflection of your own, 
Which you call pale. 


As to the how this act 
Be warranted, it rests with you. 

BEATRICE 

Well, follow ! 

OLIMPIO 

Hush ! Hark ! what noise is that ? 

MARZIO 


MARZIO 


Ha ! some one comes ! 


Is that their natural hue ? 


BEATRICE 


OLIMPIO 


Ye conscience-stricken cravens, rock to 


Or 't is my hate, and the deferred desire 
To wreak it, which extinguishes their blood. 

MARZIO 

You are inclined then to this business ? 


rest 
Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate, 40 
Which ye left open, swinging to the 

wind. 
That enters whistling as in scorn. Come, 

follow ! 


OLIMPIO 

Ay, 
If one should bribe me with a thousand 


And be your steps like mine, light, quick 
and bold. 

[Exeunt. 


crowns 
To kill a serpent which had stung my 

child, 
I could not be more willing. 


Scene III. — An Apartment in the Castle. 
Enter Beatrice and Lucretia. 

LUCRETIA 


Enter Beatrice and Lucretia below 

Noble ladies ! 


They are about it now. 

BEATRICE 


BEATRICE 

Are ye resolved ? 


Nay, it is done. 

LUCRETIA 


OLIMPIO 

Is he asleep ? 

MARZIO 

Is all 
Quiet ? 

LUCRETIA 


I have not heard him groan. 

BEATRICE 

He will not groan. 

LUCRETIA 

What sound is that ? 


I mixed an opiate with his dri.-ik; 
He sleeps so soundly — 

BEATRICE 

That his death will be 
But as a change of sin-chastising dreaais, 32 
A dark continuance of the hell within him, 


BEATRICE 

List ! 't is the tread of feet 
About his bed. 

LUCRETIA 

My God ! 
If he be nojv a cold, stiff corpse — 



ACT IV : SC. Ill 



THE CENCI 



237 



BEATRICE 

Oh, fear not 
What may be done, but what is left un- 
done; 
The act seals all. 

Entei- Olimpio and Makzio 
Is it accomplished ? 



MARZIO 



What? 



OLIMPIO 



Did you not call ? 



BEATRICE 

When ? 

OLIMPIO 

Now. 

BEATRICE 

I ask if all is over ? 

OLIMPIO 

We dare not kill an old and sleeping man; 
His thin gray hair, his stern and reverent 

brow, 10 

His veined hands crossed on his heaving 

breast, 
And the calm innocent sleep in which he 

lay, 
Quelled me. Indeed, indeed, I cannot do 

it. 

MARZIO 

But I was bolder; for I chid Olimpio, 
And bade him bear his wrongs to his own 

grave. 
And leave me the reward. And now my 

knife 
Touched the loose wrinkled throat, when 

the old man 
Stirred in his sleep, and said, ' God ! hear, 

oh, hear 
A father's curse ! What, art thou not our 

father ? ' 
And then he laughed. I knew it was the 

ghost 20 

Of my dead father speaking through his 

lips. 
And could not kill him. 

BEATRICE 

Miserable slaves ! 
Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping man. 
Found ye the boldness to return to me 



With such a deed undone ? Base palter- 
ers ! 

Cowards and traitors ! Why, the very 
conscience 

Which ye would sell for gold and for re- 
venge 

Is an equivocation; it sleeps over 

A thousand daily acts disgracing men; 

And when a deed, where mercy insults hea- 
ven — 30 

Why do I talk ? 

{Snatching a dagger from one of them, and 
raising it) 

Hadst thou a tongue to say, 

She murdered her own father, I must do 
it! 

But never dream ye shall outlive him long ! 

OLIMPIO 

Stop, for God's sake ! 

MARZIO 

I will go back and kill him. 

OLIMPIO 

Give me the weapon, we must do thy will. 

BEATRICE 

Take it ! Depart ! Return ! 

[Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio. 

How pale thou art ! 

We do but that which 't were a deadly 

crime 
To leave undone. 

LUCRETIA 

Would it were done ! 

BEATRICE 

Even whilst 
That doubt is passing through your mind, 

the world 
Is conscious of a change. Darkness and 

hell 40 

Have swallowed up the vapor they sent 

forth 
To blacken the sweet light of life. My 

breath 
Comes, methinks, lighter, and the jellied 

blood 
Runs freely through my veins. Hark ! 



Enter Olimpio and Marzio 



OLIMPIO 



He is — 
Dead! 



238 



THE CENCI 



ACT IV : SC. IV 



MARZIO 

We strangled him, that there might be no 

blood ; 
And then we threw his heavy corpse i' the 

garden 
Under the balcony ; 't will seem it fell. 

BEATRICE (giving them a hag of coin) 
Here take this gold and hasten to your 

homes. 
And, Marzio, because thou wast only awed 
By that which made me tremble, wear thou 

this ! 50 

{Clothes him in a rich mantle) 
It was the mantle which my grandfather 
Wore in his high prosperity, and men 
Envied his state; so may they envy thine. 
Thou wert a weapon in the hand of God 
To a just use. Live long and thrive ! And, 

mark. 
If thou hast crimes, repent; this deed is 

none. 

(A horn is sounded) 

LUCRETIA 

Hark, 'tis the castle horn: my God! it 

sounds 
Like the last trump. 

BEATRICE 

Some tedious guest is coming. 

LUCRETIA 

The drawbridge is let down; there is a 
tramp 

Of horses in the court; fly, hide your- 
selves ! 60 
[Exeunt Olempio and Marzio. 

BEATRICE 

Let US retire to counterfeit deep rsst; 
I scarcely need to counterfeit it now; 
The spirit which doth reign within these 

limbs 
Seems strangely undisturbed. I could even 

sleep 
Fearless and calm ; all ill is surely past. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — Another Apartment in the Castle. 
Enter on one side the Legate Savella, intro- 
duced by a Servant, and on the other LuCRE- 
tia and Bernardo. 

SAVELLA 

Lady, my duty to his Holiness 

Be my excuse that thus unseasonably 



I break upon your rest. I must speak 

with 
Count Cenci; doth he sleep ? 

LUCRETIA (in a hurried and confused manner) 

I think he sleeps; 
Yet, wake him not, I pray, spare me 

awhile. 
He is a wicked and a wrathful man; 
Should he be roused out of his sleep to- 
night. 
Which is, I know, a hell of angry dreams. 
It were not well ; indeed it were not 

well. 
Wait till day break. 

(^Aside) Oh, I am deadly sick ! 

SAVELLA 

I grieve thus to distress you, but the 
Count II 

Must answer charges of the gravest im- 
port. 

And suddenly; such my commission is. 

LUCRETIA (with increased agitation) 
I dare not rouse liim, I know none who 

dare; 
'T were perilous; you might as safely 

waken 
A serpent, or a corpse in which some fiend 
Were laid to sleep. 

SAVELLA 

Lady, my moments here 
Are counted. I must rouse him from his 
sleep, 18 

Since none else dare. 

LUCRETIA (aside) 

Oh, terror ! oh, despair ! 

( To Bernardo) 
Bernardo, conduct you the Lord Legate to 
Your father's chamber. 

[Exeunt Savella and Bernardo. 

Enter Beatrice 

BEATRICE 

'T is a messenger 
Come to arrest the culprit who now stands 
Before the throne of unappealable God. 
Both Earth and Heaven, consenting arbi- 
ters, 
Acquit our deed. 



ACT IV : SC. IV 



THE CENCI 



239 



liUCKETIA 

Oh, agony of fear ! 
Would that he yet might live ! Even now 

I heard 
The Legate's followers whisper as they 

passed 
They had a warrant for his instant death. 
All was prepared by unforbidden means, 
Which we must pay so dearly, having done. 
Even now they search the tower, and find 

the body; 31 

Now they suspect the truth; now they 

consult 
Before they come to tax us with the fact. 
Oh, horrible, 't is all discovered ! 

BEATRICE 

Mother, 
What is done wisely is done well. Be bold 
As thou art just. 'T is like a truant child, 
To fear that others know what thou hast 

done, 
Even from thine own strong consciousness, 

and thus 
Write on unsteady eyes and altered cheeks 
All thou wouldst hide. Be faithful to thy- 
self, 40 
And fear no other witness but thy fear. 
For if, as cannot be, some circumstance 
Should rise in accusation, we can blind 
Suspicion with such cheap astonishment. 
Or overbear it with such guiltless pride, 
As murderers cannot feign. The deed is 

done. 
And what may follow now regards not me. 
I am as universal as the light; 
Free as the earth-surrounding air; as firm 
As the world's centre. Consequence, to 
me, . , , .50 

Is as the wind which strikes the solid rock. 
But shakes it not. 

(A cry within and tumult) 

VOICES 

Murder ! Murder ! Murder ! 

Enter Bernardo and Savella 

SAVELLA {to his followers) 
Go, search the castle round; sound the 

alarm ; 
Look to the gates, that none escape ! 



BEATRICE 



BERNARDO 

I know not what to say — my father 's 
dead. 

BEATRICE 

How, dead ! he only sleeps; you mistake, 

brother. 
His sleep is very calm, very like death; 
'T is wonderful how well a tyrant sleeps. 
He is not dead ? 

BERNARDO 

Dead; murdered! 

LUCRETIA (with extreme agitation) 

Oh, no, no ! 
He is not murdered, though he may be 

dead ; 60 

I have alone the keys of those apartments. 



SAVELLA 



Ha ! is it so ? 



What now ? 



BEATRICE 

My Lord, I pray excuse us; 
We will retire; my mother is not well; 
She seems quite overcome with this strange 
horror. 

[Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice. 

SAVELLA 

Can you suspect who may have murdered 
him? 

BERNARDO 

I know not what to think. 

SAVELLA 

Can you name any 
Who had an interest in his death ? 

BERNARDO 

Alas! 
I can name none who had not, and those 

most 
Who most lament that such a deed is donei; 
My mother, and my sister, and myself. 70 

SAVELLA 

'T is strange ! There were clear marks of 

violence. 
I found the old man's body in the moon- 

Hanging beneath the window of his cham- 
ber 

Among the branches of a pine; he could 
not 



240 



THE CENCI 



ACT IV : sc. IV 



Have fallen there, for all his limbs lay 

heaped 
And effortless; 't is true there was no blood. 
Favor me, sir — it much imports your 

house 
That all should be made clear — to tell the 

ladies 
That I request their presence. 

[Exit Bernardo. 

Enter Guards, bringing in Marzio 

GUARD 

We have one. 

OFFICER 

My Lord, we found this ruffian and another 
Lurking among the rocks; there is no 

doubt 81 

But that they are the murderers of Count 

Cenci ; 
Each had a bag of coin; this fellow wore 
A gold-inwoven robe, which, shining bright 
Under the dark rocks to the glimmering 

moon, 
Betrayed them to our notice ; the other fell 
Desperately fighting. 

SAVELLA 

What does he confess ? 

OFFICER 

He keeps firm silence ; but these lines found 
on him 88 

May speak. 

SAVELLA 

Their language is at least sincere. 

(Reads) 

" To THE Lady Beatrice. 
That the atonement of what my nature 
sickens to conjecture may soon arrive, I 
send thee, at thy brother's desire, those 
who will speak and do more than I dare 
write. 

Thy devoted servant, 

Orsino." 

Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Bernardo 
Knowest thou this writing, lady ? 



BEATRICE 



SAVELLA 



No. 



Nor thou ? 



LUCRETIA {her conduct throughout the scene is 
marked by extreme agitation) 

Where was it found ? What is it ? It 

should be 
Orsino's hand ! It speaks of that strange 

horror 
Which never jet found utterance, but 

which made 
Between that hapless child and her dead 

father 
A gulf of obscure hatred. 

SAVELLA 

Is it so, 100 
Is it true, Lady, that thy father did 
Such outrages as to awaken in thee 
Uufilial hate ? 

BEATRICE 

Not hate, 't was more than hate ; 
This is most true, yet wherefore question 
me? 

SAVELLA 

There is a deed demanding question done; 
Thou hast a secret which will answer not. 

BEATRICE 

What sayest ? My Lord, your words are 
bold and rash. 

SAVELLA 

I do arrest all present in the name 
Of the Pope's Holiness. You must to 
Rome. 109 

LUCRETIA 

Oh, not to Rome ! indeed we are not guilty. 

BEATRICE 

Guilty ! who dares talk of guilt ? My 

Lord, 
I am more innocent of parricide 
Than is a child born fatherless. Dear 

mother, 
Your gentleness and patience are no shield 
For this keen-judging world, this two- 
edged lie, 
Which seems, but is not. What ! will hu- 
man laws. 
Rather will ye who are their ministers, 
Bar all access to retribution first. 
And then, when Heaven doth interpose to do 
What ye neglect, arming familiar things 120 
To the redress of an unwonted crime. 
Make ye the victims who demanded it 



ACT IV : SC. IV 



THE CENCI 



241 



Culprits? 'Tis ye are culprits! That 
poor wretch 

Who stands so pale, and trembling, and 
amazed, 

If it be true he murdered Cenci, was 

A sword in the right hand of justest God. 

Wherefore should 1 have wielded it ? un- 
less 

The crimes which mortal tongue dare never 
name 128 

God therefore scruples to avenge. 



SAVELLA 



You own 



That you desired his death ? 



BEATRICE 

It would have been 
A crime no less than his, if for one moment 
That fierce desire had faded in my heart. 
'Tis true I did believe, and hope, and 

pray. 
Ay, I even knew — for God is wise and 

just — 
That some strange sudden death hung over 

him. 
'T is true that this did happen, and most 

true 
There was no other rest for me on earth, 
No other hope in Heaven. Now what of 

this ? 

SAVELLA 

Strange thoughts beget strange deeds ; and 
here are both; 139 

I judge thee not. 

BEATRICE 

And yet, if you arrest me. 
You are the judge and executioner 
Of that which is the life of life ; the breath 
Of accusation kills an innocent name. 
And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life 
Which is a mask without it. 'T is most 

false 
That I am guilty of foul parricide; 
Although I must rejoice, for justest cause, 
That other hands have sent my father's 

soul 
To ask the mercy he denied to me. 149 

Now leave us free; stain not a noble house 
With vague surmises of rejected crime ; 
Add to our sufferings and your own neglect 
No heavier sum ; let them have been enough ; 
Leave us the wreck we have. 



SAVELLA 

I dare not. Lady. 
I pray that you prepare yourselves for 

Rome. 
There the Pope's further pleasure will be 

known. 

LUCRETIA 

Oh, not to Rome ! Oh, take us not to Rome ! 

BEATRICE 

Why not to Rome, dear mother ? There 

as here 
Our innocence is as an arm^d heel 159 

To trample accusation. God is there, 
As here, and with his shadow ever clothes 
The innocent, the injured, and the weak; 
And such are we. Cheer up, dear Lady ! 

lean 
On me; collect your wandering thoughts. 

My Lord, 
As soon as you have taken some refresh- 
ment. 
And had all such examinations made 
Upon the spot as may be necessary 
To the full understanding of this matter. 
We shall be ready. Mother, will you come ? 

LUCRETIA 

Ha ! they will bind us to the rack, and 
wrest 170 

Self-accusation from our agony ! 

Will Giacomo be there ? Orsino ? Marzio ? 

All present; all confronted; all demanding 

Each from the other's countenance the 
thing 

Which is in every heart ! Oh, misery ! 

{She faints, and is borne out) 

SAVELLA 

She faints; an ill appearance this. 

BEATRICE 

My Lord, 
She knows not yet the uses of the world. 
She fears that power is as a beast which 

grasps 
And loosens not; a snake whose look trans- 
mutes 179 
All things to guilt which is its nutriment. 
She cannot know how well the supine slaves 
Of blind authority read the truth of things 
When written on a brow of gnilelessness; 
She sees not yet triumphant Innocence 
Stand at the judgment-seat of mortal man, 



242 



THE CENCI 



ACT V : SC. I 



A judge and an accuser of the wrong 
Which drags it there. Prepare yourself, 

my Lord. 
Our suite will join yours in the court below. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT V 

Scene I. — An Apartment in Orsino's Palace. 
Enter Orsino and Giacomo. 

GIACOMO 

Do evil deeds thus quickly come to end ? 
Oh, that the vain remorse which must chas- 
tise 
Crimes done had but as loud a voice to warn 
As its keen sting is mortal to avenge ! 
Oh, that the hour when present had cast off 
The mantle of its mystery, and shown 
The ghastly form with which it now returns 
When its scared game is roused, cheering 

the hounds 
Of conscience to their prey ! Alas, alas ! 
It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed, lo 
To kill an old and hoary-headed father. 

ORSINO 

It has turned out unluckily, in truth. 

GIACOMO 

To violate the sacred doors of sleep; 
To cheat kind nature of the placid death 
"Which she prepares for overwearied age; 
To drag from Heaven an unrepentant soul. 
Which might have quenched in reconciling 

prayers 
A life of burning crimes — 



ORSINO 



X urged you to the deed. 



You cannot say 



GIACOMO 

Oh, had I never 

Found in thy smooth and ready counte- 
nance 20 

The mirror of my darkest thoughts; hadst 
thou 

Never with hints and questions made me 
look 

Upon the monster of my thought, until 

It grew familiar to desire — 

ORSINO 

'T is thus 
Men cast the blame of their unprosperous 
acts 



Upon the abettors of their own resolve; 
Or anything but their weak, guilty selves. 
And yet, confess the truth, it is the peril 
In which you stand that gives you this pale 

sickness 
Of penitence; confess 't is fear disguised 30 
From its own shame that takes the mantle 

now 
Of thin remorse. What if we yet were 

safe? 

GIACOMO 

How can that be ? Already Beatrice, 
Lucretia and the murderer are in prison. 
I doubt not officers are, whilst we speak, 
Sent to arrest us. 

ORSINO 

I have all prepared 
For instant flight. We can escape even 

now. 
So we take fleet occasion by the hair. 

GIACOMO 

Rather expire in tortures, as I may. 

What ! will you cast by self-accusing 
flight 40 

Assured conviction upon Beatrice ? 

She who alone, in this unnatural work 

Stands like God's angel ministered upon 

By fiends ; avenging such a nameless 
wrong 

As turns black parricide to piety; 

Whilst we for basest ends — I fear, Or- 
sino, 

While I consider all your words and looks, 

Comparing them with your proposal now. 

That you must be a villain. For what end 

Could you engage in such a perilous 
crime, 5c 

Training me on with hints, and signs, and 
smiles, 

Even to this gulf ? Thou art no liar ? 
No, 

Thou art a lie ! Traitor and murderer ! 

Coward and slave ! But no — defend thy- 
self; 

(Drawing) 

Let the sword speak what the indignant 
tongue 

Disdains to brand thee with. 

ORSINO 

Put up your weapon. 
Is it the desperation of your fear 



ACT V : SC. II 



THE CENCI 



243 



Makes you thus rash and sudden with a 

friend, 
Now ruined for your sake ? If honest 

anger 
Have moved you, know, that what I just 

proposed 5o 

Was but to try you. As for me, I think 
Thankless affection led me to this point. 
From which, if my firm temper could re- 
pent, 
I cannot now recede. Even whilst we 

speak. 
The ministers of justice wait below; 
They grant me these brief moments. Now, 

if you 
Have any word of melancholy comfort 
To speak to your pale wife, 't were best to 

pass 
Out at the postern, and avoid them so. 

GIACOMO 

generous friend ! how canst thou pardon 

me ? 70 

Would that my life could purchase thine ! 

ORSINO 

That wish 
Now comes a day too late. Haste; fare 

thee well ! 
Hear'st thou not steps along the corridor ? 

[Exit GiAcoMO. 

1 'm sorry for it ; but the guards are wait- 

ing 
At his own gate, and such was my contriv- 
ance 
That I might rid me both of him and 

them. 
I thought to act a solemn comedy 
Upon the painted scene of this new world. 
And to attain my own peculiar ends 
By some such plot of mingled good and 

ill 80 

As others weave ; but there arose a Power 
Which grasped and snapped the threads of 

my device. 
And turned it to a net of ruin — Ha ! 

(A shout is heard) 
Is that my name I hear proclaimed abroad ? 
But I will pass, wrapped in a vile disguise, 
Rags on my back and a false innocence 
Upon my face, through the misdeeming 

crowd, 
Which judges by what seems. 'T is easy 

then, 
For a new name and for a country new, 



And a new life fashioned on old desires, 90 
To change the honors of abandoned Rome. 
And these must be the masks of that 

within, 
Which must remain unaltered. — Oh, I 

fear 
That what is past will never let me rest ! 
Why, when none else is conscious, but 

myself. 
Of my misdeeds, should my own heart's 

contempt 
Trouble me ? Have I not the power to 

fly 

My own reproaches ? Shall I be the 
slave 

Of — what ? A word ? which those of 
this false world 

Employ against each other, not them- 
selves, 100 

As men wear daggers not for self-offence. 

But if I am mistaken, where shall I 

Find the disguise to hide me from myself, 

As now I skulk from every other eye ? 

[Exit. 

Scene II. — A Hall of Justice. Camlllo, 
Judges, etc., are discovered seated ; Mabzio 
is led in. 

FIRST JUDGE 

Accused, do you persist in your denial ? 
I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty ? 
I demand who were the participators 
In your offence. Speak truth, and the 
whole truth. 

MARZIO 

My God ! I did not kill him; I know no- 
thing; 
Olimpio sold the robe to me from which 
You would infer my guilt. 

SECOND JUDGE 

Away with him ! 

FIRST JUDGE 

Dare you, with lips yet white from the 

rack's kiss, 
Speak false ? Is it so soft a questioner 9 
That you would bandy lover's talk with it, 
Till it wind out your life and soul ? Away ! 

alARZIO 

Spare me ! Oh, spare ! I will confess. 

FIRST JUDGE 

Then speak 



244 



THE CENCI 



ACT V : SC. II 



MARZIO 

I strangled him in his sleep. 

FIRST JUDGE 

Who urged you to it ? 

MAKZIO 

His own son Giacomo and the young pre- 
late 
Orsino sent me to Petrella; there 
The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia 
Tempted me with a thousand crowns, 

and I 
And my companion forthwith murdered 
him. i8 

Now let me die. 

FIRST JUDGE 

This sounds as bad as truth. 
Guards, there, lead forth the prisoners. 

Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo, 
guarded 

Look upon this man; 
When did you see him last ? 

BEATRICE 

We never saw him. 

MARZIO 

You know me too well. Lady Beatrice. 

BEATRICE 

I know thee ! how ? where ? when ? 

MARZIO 

You know 't was I 
Whom you did urge with menaces and 

bribes 
To kill your father. When the thing was 

done. 
You clothed me in a robe of woven gold, 
And bade me thrive; how I have thriven, 

you see. 
You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia, 
You know that what I speak is true. 

[Beatrice advances towards him ; he 
covers his face, and shrinks hack. 

Oh, dart 
The terrible resentment of those eyes 30 
On the dead earth ! Turn them away from 

me ! 
They wound; 'twas torture forced the 

truth. My Lords, 
Having said this, let me be led to death. 



BEATRICE 

Poor wretch, I pity thee; yet stay awhile. 

CAMILLO 

Guards, lead him not away. 

BEATRICE 

Cardinal Camillo, 
You have a good repute for gentleness 
And wisdom ; can it be that you sit here 
To countenance a wicked farce like this ? 
When some obscure and trembling slave is 

dragged 
From sufferings which might shake the 

sternest heart 40 

And bade to answer, not as he believes. 
But as those may suspect or do desire 
Whose questions thence suggest their own 

reply; 
And that in peril of such hideous tor- 
ments 
As merciful God spares even the damned. 

Speak now 
The thing you surely know, which is, that 

you. 
If your fine frame were stretched upon 

that wheel. 
And you were told, ' Confess that you did 

poison 
Your little nephew; that fair blue-eyed 

child 
Who was the lodestar of your life;' and 

though 50 

All see, since his most swift and piteous 

death. 
That day and night, and heaven and earth, 

and time. 
And all the things hoped for or done 

therein, 
Are changed to you, through your exceed- 
ing grief. 
Yet you would say, * I confess anything,' 
And beg from your tormentors, like that 

slave. 
The refuge of dishonorable death, 
I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assert 
My innocence. 

CAMILLO {much moved) 

What shall we think, my Lords ? 

Shame on these tears ! I thought the heart 

was frozen 60 

Which is their fountain. I would pledge 

my soul 
That she is guiltless. 



ACT V : SC. II 



THE CENCI 



245 



JUDGE 

Yet she must be tortured. 

CAMILLO 

1 would as soon have tortured mine own 

nephew 
(If he now lived, he would be just her age; 
His hair, too, was her color, and his eyes 
Like hers in shape, but blue and not so 

deep) 
As that most perfect image of God's love 
That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. 
She is as pure as speechless infancy ! 

JUDGE 

Well, be her purity on your head, my 
Lord, 70 

If you forbid the rack. His Holiness 
Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous crime 
By the severest forms of law; nay, even 
To stretch a point against the criminals. 
The prisoners stand accused of parricide 
Upon such evidence as justifies 
Torture. 

BEATRICE 

What evidence ? This man's ? 



JUDGE 



Even so. 



BEATRICE {to MARZIO) 

Come near. And who art thou, thus chosen 

forth 
Out of the multitude of living men, 
To kill the innocent ? 

MARZIO 

I am Marzio, 80 

Thy father's vassal. 

BEATRICE 

Fix thine eyes on mine ; 
Answer to what I ask. 

{Turning to the Judges) 
I prithee mark 
His countenance; unlike bold calumny. 
Which sometimes dares not speak the thing 

it looks. 
He dares not look the thing he speaks, but 

bends 
His gaze on the blind earth. 

{To Marzio) 

What ! wilt thou say 
That I did murder my own father ? 



marzio 

Oh! 
Spare me ! My brain swims round — I 

cannot speak — 
It was that horrid torture forced the truth 
Take me away ! Let her not look on me ! 
I am a guilty miserable wretch ! gt 

I have said all I know, now, let me die ! 

BEATRICE 

My Lords, if by my nature I had been 

So stern as to have planned the crime 

alleged. 
Which your suspicions dictate to this slave 
And the rack makes him utter, do you 

think 
I should have left this two-edged instru- 
ment 
Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody 

knife, 
With my own name engraven on the heft. 
Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes. 
For my own death ? that with such horri- 
ble need loi 
For deepest silence I should have neglected 
So trivial a precaution as the making 
His tomb the keeper of a secret written 
On a thief's memory ? What is his poor 

life? 
What are a thousand lives ? A parricide 
Had trampled them like dust; and see, he 
lives ! 

{Turning to Marzio) 
And thou — 

marzio 
Oh, spare me ! Speak to me no more ! 
That stern yet piteous look, those solemn 
tones, log 

Wound worse than torture 

{To the Judges)- 

I have told it all; 
For pity's sake lead me away to death. 

CAMILLO 

Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Bea- 
trice ; 

He shrinks from her regard like autumn's 
leaf 

From the keen breath of the serenes'; north. 

BEATRICE 

O thou who tremblest on the giddy verge 
Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest 
me; 



34^ 



THE CENCI 



ACT V : SC. II 



So mayst thou answer God with less dis- 
may. 
What evil have we done thee ? I, alas ! 
Have lived but on this earth a few sad 

years, 1 19 

And so my lot was ordered that a father 
First turned the moments of awakening life 
To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet 

hope; and then 
Stabbed with one blow my everlasting soul, 
And my untainted fame; and even thafc 

peace 
Which sleeps within the core of the heart's 

heart. 
But the wound was not mortal; so my hate 
Became the only worship I could lift 
To our great Father, who in pity and love 
Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him 

off; 129 

And thus his wrong becomes my accusa= 

tion. 
And art thou the accuser ? If thou hopest 
Mercy in heaven, show justice upon earth; 
Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart 
If thou hast done murders, made thy life's 

path 
Over the trampled laws of God and man, 
Rush not before thy Judge, and say: * My 

Maker, 
I have done this and more; for there was 

one 
W^ho was most pure and innocent on earth; 
And because she endured what never any, 
Guilty or innocent, endured before, 140 

Because her wrongs could not be told, nor 

thought 
Because thy hand at length did rescue her, 
I with my words killed her and all her 

kin.' 
Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay 
The reverence living in the minds of men 
Towards our ancient house and stainless 

fame ! 
Think what it is to strangle infant pity. 
Cradled in the belief of guileless looks. 
Till it become a crime to suffer. Think 
What 't is to blot with infamy and blood 
All that which shows like innocence, and 

is — 151 

Hear me, great God ! — I swear, most in- 
nocent; 
So that the world lose all discrimination 
Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of 

guilt. 
And that which now compels thee to reply 



To what I ask: Am I, or am I not 
A parricide ? 

MARZIO 

Thou art not ! 



JUDGE 



What is this ? 



MARZIO 

I here declare those whom I did accuse 
Are innocent. 'T is I alone am guilty. 159 

JUDGE 

Drag him away to torments; let them be 
Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the 

folds 
Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him 

not 
Till he confess 

MARZIO 

Torture me as ye will; 
A keener pang has wrung a higher truth 
From my last breath. She is most inno- 
cent ! 
Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well 

with me ! 
I will not give you that fine piece of nature 
To rend and ruin. 

[Exit Marzio, guarded. 

CAMILLO 

W^hat say ye now, my Lords ? 

JUDGE 

Let tortures strain the truth till it be 
white 169 

As snow thrice-sifted by the frozen wind. 

CAMILLO 

Yet stained with blood. 

JUDGE (to BEATRICE) 

Know you this paper. Lady ? 

BEATRICE 

Entrap me not with questionso Who stands 

here 
As my accuser? Ha ! wilt thou be he. 
Who art my judge ? Accuser, witness, 

judge, 
What, all in one ? Here is Orsino's name ; 
Where is Orsino ? Let his eye meet mine. 
What means this scrawl ? Alas ! ye know 

not what. 



ACT V : SC. Ill 



THE CENCI 



247 



And therefore on the chance that it may be 
Some evil, will ye kill us ? 



Enter an Officer 

OFFICER 



Marzio 's dead. 



JUDGE 



What did he say ? 



OFFICER 

Nothing. As soon as we 
Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on 
us, 181 

As one who baffles a deep adversary; 
And holding his breath died. 

JUDGE 

There remains nothing 
But to apply the question to those prisoners 
Who yet remain stubborn, 

CAMILIiO 

I overrule 
Further proceedings, and in the behalf 
Of these most innocent and noble persons 
Will use my interest with the Holy Father. 

JUDGE 

Let the Pope's pleasure then be done. 

Meanwhile 
Conduct these culprits each to separate 

cells; 190 

And be the engines ready; for this night, 
If the Pope's resolution be as grave. 
Pious, and just as once, I '11 wring the 

truth 
Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by 

groan. 

[Exewit. 

Scene III. — The Cell of a Prison. Beatrice 
IS discovered asleep on a couch. 

Enter Bernardo 

BERNARDO 

How gently slumber rests upon her face. 
Like the last thoughts of some day sweetly 

spent, 
Closing in night and dreams, and so pro- 
longed. 
After such torments as she bore last night. 
How light and soft her breathing comes. 
Ay me ! 



Methinks that I shall never sleep again. 
But I must shake the heavenly dew of rest 
From this sweet folded flower, thus — 

wake, awake ! 
What, sister, canst thou sleep ? 

BEATRICE (awaking) 

I was just dreaming 
That we were all in Paradise. Thou 
knowest 10 

This cell seems like a kind of Paradise 
After our father's presence. 

BERNARDO 

Dear, dear sister. 
Would that thy dream were not a dream ! 

Oh, God, 
How shall I tell ? 

BEATRICE 

What wouldst thou tell, sweet brother ? 

BERNARDO 

Look not so calm and happy, or even whilst 
I stand considering wliat I have to say, 
My heart will break. 

BEATRICE 

See now, thou mak'st me weep; 
How very friendless thou wouldst be, dear 

child, 
If I were dead. Say what thou hast to 

say. 

BERNARDO 

They have confessed ; they could endure no 
more 2c 

The tortures — 

BEATRICE 

Ha ! what was there to confess ? 
They must have told some weak and wicked 

lie 
To flatter their tormentors. Have they 

said 
That they were guilty ? O white innocence, 
That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt 

to hide 
Thine awful and serenest countenance 
From those who know thee not ! 

Enter Judge, with Lucretia and Giacomo, 

guarded 

Ignoble hearts ! 
For some brief spasms of pain, which are 
at least 



248 



THE CENCI 



ACT V : SC. Ill 



As mortal as the limbs through which they 

pass, 
Are centuries of high splendor laid in 

dust? 30 

And that eternal honor, which should live 
Sunlike, above the reek of mortal fame. 
Changed to a mockery and a byword ? 

What ! 
Will you give up these bodies to be 

dragged 
At horses' heels, so that our hair should 

sweep 
The footsteps of the vain and senseless 

crowd, 
Who, that they may make our calamity 
Their worship and their spectacle, will 

leave 
The churches and the theatres as void 
As their own hearts ? Shall the light 

multitude 40 

Fling, at their choice, curses or faded pity. 
Sad funeral flowers to deck a living corpse. 
Upon us as we pass to pass away. 
And leave — what memory of our having 

been ? 
Infamy, blood, terror, despair ? O thou 
Who wert a mother to the parentless. 
Kill not thy child ! let not her wrongs kill 

thee! 
Brother, lie down with me upon the rack, 
And let us each be silent as a corpse; 
It soon will be as soft as any grave. 50 

'T is but the falsehood it can wring from 

fear 
Makes the rack cruel. 

GIACOMO 

They will tear the truth 
Even from thee at last, those cruel pains; 
For pity's sake say thou art guilty now. 

LUCRETIA 

Oh, speak the truth ! Let us all quickly 

die; 
And after death, God is our judge, not 

they; 
He will have mercy on us. 

BERNARDO 

If indeed 
It can be true, say so, dear sister mine; 58 
And then the Pope will surely pardon 

yon, 
And all be well. 



JUDGE 

Confess, or I will warp 
Your limbs with such keen tortures — 

BEATRICE 

Tortures ! Turn 
The rack henceforth into a spinning-wheel ! 
Torture your dog, that he may tell when 

last 
He lapped the blood his master shed — 

not me ! 
My pangs are of the mind, and of the heart, 
And of the soul; ay, of the inmost soul. 
Which weeps within tears as of burning 

gall 
To see, in this ill world where none are 

true, 
My kindred false to their deserted selves; 
And with considering all the wretched life 
Which I have lived, and its now wretched 

end; 71 

And the small justice shown by Heaven 

and Earth 
To me or mine; and what a tyrant thou 

art, 
And what slaves these; and what a world 

we make. 
The oppressor and the oppressed — such 

pangs compel 
My answer. What is it thou wouldst with 

me ? 

JUDGE 

Art thou not guilty of thy father's death ? 

BEATRICE 

Or wilt thou rather tax high-judging God 
That he permitted such an act as that 
Which I have suffered, and which he be- 
held; 80 
Made it unutterable, and took from it 
All refuge, all revenge, all consequence, 
But that which thou hast called my father's 

death ? 
Which is or is not what men call a crime, 
Which either I have done, or have not done; 
Say what ye will. I shall deny no more. 
If ye desire it thus, thus let it be. 
And so an end of all. Now do your will; 
No other pains shall force another word. 

JUDGE 

She is convicted, but has not confessed. 90 
Be it enough. Until their final sentence 



ACT V : SC. IV 



THE CENCI 



249 



Let none have converse with them. 

young Lord, 
Linger not here ! 



You, 



BEATRICE 

Oh, tear him not away ! 

JUDGE 

Guards ! do your duty. 

BERNARDO (embracing Beatrice) 

Oh ! would ye divide 
Body from soul ? 

OFFICER 

That is the headsman's business. 
[Exeunt all but Lucretia, Beatrice, and 

GlACOMO. 

GIACOMO 

Have I confessed ? Is it all over now ? 
No hope ! no refuge ! O weak, wicked 

tongue, 
Which hast destroyed me, would that thou 

hadst been 
Cut out and thrown to dogs first ! To 

have killed 
My father first, and then betrayed my 

sister — 100 

Ay, thee ! the one thing innocent and pure 
In this black, guilty world — to that 

which I 
So well deserve ! My wife ! my little 

ones ! 
Destitute, helpless; and I — Father ! God ! 
Canst thou forgive even the unforgiving. 
When their full hearts break thus, thus ? 
(Covers his face and weeps) 

LUCRETIA 

O my child ! 
To what a dreadful end are we all come ! 
Why did I yield ? Why did I not sustain 
Those torments ? Oh, that I were all dis- 
solved 
Into these fast and unavailing tears, no 
Which flow and feel not ! 

BEATRICE 

What 't was weak to do, 
'Tis weaker to lament, once being done; 
Take cheer ! The God who knew my 

wrong, and made 
Our speedy act the angel of his wrath, 
Seems, and but seems, to have abandoned 

us. 



Let us not think that we shall die for this. 
Brother, sit near me; give me your firm 

hand. 
You had a manly heart. Bear up ! bear 

up ! 
O dearest Lady, put your gentle head 
Upon my lap, and try to sleep awhile; 120 
Your eyes look pale, hollow, and overworn. 
With heaviness of watching and slow grief. 
Come, I will sing you some low, sleepy 

tune, 
Not cheerful, nor yet sad; some dull old 

thing. 
Some outworn and unused monotony. 
Such as our country gossips sing and spin. 
Till they almost forget they live. Lie 

down — 
So, that will do. Have I forgot the words ? 
Faith ! they are sadder than I thought they 



were. 



SONG 



False friend, wilt thou smile or weep 130 
When my life is laid asleep ? 
Little cares for a smile or a tear, 
The clay-cold corpse upon the bier ! 

Farewell ! Heigh-ho ! 

What is this whispers low ? 
There is a snake in thy smile, my dear; 
And bitter poison within thy tear. 

Sweet sleep ! were death like to thee, 
Or if thou couldst mortal be, 
I would close these eyes of pain; 140 

When to wake ? Never again. 

O World ! farewell ! 

Listen to the passing bell ! 
It says, thou and I must part, 
With a light and a heavy heart. 

(The scene closes) 

Scene IV. — A Hall of the Prison. Enter 
Camillo atid Bernardo. 

CAMILLO 

The Pope is stern; not to be moved ot 
bent. 

He looked as calm and keen as is the en- 
gine 

Which tortures and which kills, exempt it- 
self 

From aught that it inflicts; a marble form, 

A rite, a law, a custom; not a man. 

He frowned, as if to frown had been the 
trick 



250 



THE CENCI 



ACT V : SC. IV 



Of his machinery, on the advocates 
Presenting the defences, which he tore 
And threw beliind, muttering with hoarse, 

harsh voice — 
* Which among ye defended their old fa- 
ther 10 
Killed in his sleep ? ' then to another — 

* Thou 
Dost this in virtue of thy place; 't is well.' 
He turned to me then, looking depreca- 
tion, 
And said these three words, coldly — * They 
must die.' 

BERNARDO 

And yet you left him not ? 

CAMILLO 

I urged him still; 
Pleading, as I could guess, the devilish 

wrong 
Which prompted your unnatural parent's 

death. 
And he replied — ' Paolo Santa Croce 
Murdered his mother yester evening, 
And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife, 20 
That soon, for some just cause no doubt, 

the young 
Will strangle us all, dozing in our chairs. 
Authority, and power, and hoary hair 
Are grown crimes capital. You are my 

nephew. 
You come to ask their pardon; stay a mo- 
ment; 
Here is their sentence; never see me more 
Till, to the letter, it be all fulfilled.' 

BERNARDO 

Oh, God, not so ! I did believe indeed 
That all you said was but sad prepara- 
tion 
For happy news. Oh, there are words and 

looks 30 

To bend the sternest purpose ! Once I 

knew them, 
Now I forget them at my dearest need. 
What think you if I seek him out, and 

bathe 
His feet and robe with hot and bitter 

tears ? 
Importune him with prayers, vexing his 

brain 
With my perpetual cries, until in rage 
He strike me with his pastoral cross, and 

trample 



Upon my prostrate head, so that my blood 
May stain the senseless dust on which he 
treads, 39 

And remorse waken mercy ? I will do it ! 
Oh, wait till I return J 

[Rushes out. 

CAMILLO 

Alas, poor boy ! 
A wreck-devoted seaman thus might pray 
To the deaf sea. 

Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo, 
guarded 

BEATRICE 

I hardly dare to fear 
That thou bring'st other news than a just 
pardon. 

CAMILLO 

May God in heaven be less inexorable 

To the Pope's prayers than he has been to 

mine. 
Here is the sentence and the warrant. 



BEATRICE (wildly) 



Oh, 



My God ! Can it be possible I have 
To die so suddenly ? so young to go 
Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy 

ground! 50 

To be nailed down into a narrow place; 
To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no 

more 
Blithe voice of living thing; muse not 

again 
Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost! 
How fearful! to be nothing ! Or to be — 
What ? Oh, where am I ? Let me not 

go mad ! 
Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts ! 

If there should be 
No God, no Heaven, no Earth in the void 

world — 
The wide, gray, lampless, deep, unpeopled 

world ! 
If all things then should be — my father's 

spirit, 60 

His eye, his voice, his touch surrounding 

me; 
The atmosphere and breath of my dead 

life! 
If sometimes, as a shape more like him- 
self. 
Even the form which tortured me on earth, 



ACT V : SC. IV 



THE CENCI 



251 



Masked in gray hairs and wrinkles, he 

should come, 
And wind me in his hellish arms, and fix 
His eyes on mine, and drag me down, 

down, down ! 
For was he not alone omnipotent 
On Earth, and ever present ? even though 

dead, 69 

Does not his spirit live in all that breathe, 
And work for me and mine still the same 

ruin. 
Scorn, pain, despair ? Who ever yet re- 
turned 
To teach the laws of death's untrodden 

realm ? 
Unjust perhaps as those which drive us 

now. 
Oh, whither, whither ? 

LUCRETIA 

Trust in God's sweet love, 
The tender promises of Christ; ere night. 
Think we shall be in Paradise. 

BEATRICE 

'T is past ! 
Whatever comes, my heart shall sink no 

more. 
And yet, I know not why, your words 

strike chill; 
How tedious, false, and cold seem all 

things ! I 80 

Have met with much injustice in this 

world ; 
No difference has been made by God or 

man. 
Or any power moulding my wretched lot, 
'Twixt good or evil, as regarded me. 
I am cut off from the only world I know, 
From light, and life, and love, in youth's 

sweet prime. 
You do well telling me to trust in God ; 
I hope I do trust in him. In whom else 
Can any trust ? And yet my heart is 

cold. 

(During the latter speeches Giacomo has re- 
tired conversing with Camillo, ivho now 
goes out ; Giacomo advances) 

GIACOMO 

Know you not, mother — sister, know you 
not ? 9c 

Bernardo even now is gone to implore 
The Pope to grant our pardon. 



LUCRETIA 

Child, perhaps 
It will be granted. We may all then live 
To make these woes a tale for distant years. 
Oh, what a thought ! It gushes to my 

heart 
Like the warm blood. 

BEATRICE 

Yet both will soon be cold. 
Oh, trample out that thought ! Worse than 

despair, 
Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope ; 
It is the only ill which can find place 99 
Upon the giddy, sharp, and narrow hour 
Tottering beneath us. Plead with the swift 

frost 
That it should spare the eldest flower of 

spring; 
Plead with awakening earthquake, o'er 

whose couch 
Even now a city stands, strong, fair, and 

free; 
Now stench and blackness yawn, like death. 

Oh, plead 
With famine, or wind-walking pestilence, 
Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with 

man — 
Cruel, cold, formal man; righteous in 

words. 
In deeds a Cain. No, mother, we mvist die; 
Since such is the reward of innocent lives. 
Such the alleviation of worst wrongs. m 
And whilst our murderers live, and hard, 

cold men. 
Smiling and slow, walk through a world of 

tears 
To death as to life's sleep ; 't were just the 

grave 
Were some strange joy for us. Come, ob- 
scure Death, 
And wind me in thine all-embracing arms ! 
Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom. 
And rock me to the sleep from which none 

wake. 
Live ye, who live, subject to one another 
As we were once, who now — 

Bernardo rushes in 

BERNARDO 

Oh, horrible ! 
That tears, that looks, that hope poured 
forth in prayer, m 

Even till the heart is vacant and despairs, 



252 



THE MASK OF ANARCHY 



Sliould all be vain ! The ministers of death 
Are waiting round the doors. I thought I 

saw 
Blood on the face of one — what if 't were 

fancy ? 
Soon the heart's blood of all I love on earth 
Will sprinkle hiu], and he will wipe it off 
As if 't were only rain. O life ! O world ! 
Cover me ! let me be no more ! To see 
That perfect mirror of pure innocence 130 
Wherein I gazed, and grew happy and 

good, 
Shivered to dust ! To see thee, Beatrice, 
Who made all lovely thou didst look upon — 
Thee, light of life — dead, dark ! while I 

say, sister, 
To hear I have no sister; and thou, mother, 
Whose love was as a bond to all our loves — 
Dead ! the sweet bond broken ! 

Enter Camillo and Guards 

They come ! Let me 
Kiss those warm lips before their crimson 

leaves 
Are blighted — white — cold. Say fare- 
well, before 
Death chokes that gentle voice ! Oh, let 
me hear 140 

You speak ! 

BEATRICE 

Farewell, my tender brother. Think 
Of our sad fate with gentleness, as now; 
And let mild, pitying thoughts lighten for 

thee 
Thy sorrow's load. Err not in harsh de- 
spair. 



But tears and patience. One thing more, 

my child; 
For thine own sake be constant to the love 
Thou bearest us; and to the faith that I, 
Though wrapped in a strange cloud of 

crime and shame. 
Lived ever holy and unstained. And 

though 
111 tongues shall wound me, and our com- 
mon name 150 
Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent 

brow 
For men to point at as they pass, do thou 
Forbear, and never think a thought unkind 
Of those who perhaps love thee in their 

graves. 
So mayest thou die as I do; fear and pain 
Being subdued. Farewell ! Farewell ! 

Farewell ! 

BERNARDO 

I cannot say farewell ! 

CAMILLO 

O Lady Beatrice ! 

BEATRICE 

Give yourself no unnecessary pain, 

My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, mother, 

tie 
My girdle for me, and bind up this hair 160 
In any simple knot; ay, that does well. 
And yours I see is coming down. How 

often 
Have we done this for one another; now 
We shall not do it any more. My Lord, 
We are quite ready. Well — 't is very- 
well. 



THE MASK OF ANARCHY 



WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF THE MASSACRE AT MANCHESTER 



The Mask of Anarchy was composed in the 
fall of 1819, soon after the Manchester riot of 
that summer. The Manchester or ' Peterloo 
Massacre,' as it was called, was occasioned 
by an attempt to hold a mass meeting' on 
August 9, 1819, at St. Peter's Field, Man- 
chester, in behalf of parliamentary reform. 
It was declared illeg'al and forbidden by the 
magistrates, and was in consequence post- 
poned. It was held August 16, and attended 
by several thousands. The chief constable 
was ordered to arrest the ringleaders, and in 
particular the chairman, Henry Hunt, an agi- 
tator unconnected with Leigh Hunt. He asked 



military aid, and went accompanied by forty 
cavalrymen ; on the failure of the officer and 
his escort to penetrate the crowd which sur- 
rounded them, orders were given three hun- 
dred hussars to disperse the people ; in the 
charge six persons were killed, twenty or 
thirty received sabre wounds, and fifty or more 
were injured in other ways. Eldon was Lord 
High Chancellor, Sidmouth, Home Secretary, 
and Castlereagh, Foreign Secretary ; the gov- 
ernment supported the authorities and publicly 
approved their conduct. News of these events 
reached Shelley while still residing at the Villa 
Valsovano, near Leghorn, and employed in 



THE MASK OF ANARCHY 



253 



revising' The Cenci, and ' roused in him,' says 
Mrs. Shelley, ' violent emotions of indignation 
and compassion.' The nature of these emo- 
tions is shown in the letter he wrote to Oilier, 
from whom he heard of the affair : ' The same 
day that your letter came, came the news 
of the Manchester work, and the torrent of my 
indignation has not yet done boiling in my 
veins. I wait anxiously to hear how the coun- 
try will express its sense of this bloody, mur- 
derous oppression of its destroyers. " Some- 
thing must be done. What, yet I know not. " ' 
In a similar vein he addressed Peacock, who 
had forwarded newspaper accounts : ' Many 
thanks for your attention in sending the papers 
which contain the terrible and important news 
of Manchester. These are, as it were, the dis- 
tant thunders of the terrible storm which is 
approaching. The tyrants here, as in the 
French Revolution, have first shed blood. 
May their execrable lessons not be learned 
with equal docility ! I still think there will 
be no coming to close quarters until financial 
affairs bring the oppressors and the oppressed 
together. Pray let me have the earliest politi- 
cal news which you consider of importance at 
this crisis.' 



Shelley sent the poem to Leigh Hunt to be 
published in The Examiner, but it did not ap- 
pear. He wrote to Hunt on the subject in 
November. 

' You do not tell me whether you have re- 
ceived my lines on the Manchester affair. They 
are of the exoteric species, and are meant, not 
for the Indicator, but the Examiner. . . . The 
great thing to do is to hold the balance be- 
tween popular impatience and tyrannical ob- 
stinacy ; to inculcate with fervor both the 
right of resistance and the duty of forbearance. 
You know my principles incite me to take all 
the good I can get in politics, forever aspiring 
to something more. I am one of those whom 
nothing will fully satisfy, but who are ready 
to be partially satisfied by all that is practi- 
cable. We shall see.' 

The poem was at last issued, under Hunt's 
editorship, in 1832. He assigns, in his preface, 
as the reason for his failure to publish it when 
it was written, his own belief that ' the public 
at large had not become sufficiently discern- 
ing to do justice to the sincerity and kind- 
heartedness of his spirit, that walked in the 
flaming robe of verse.' 



As I lay asleep in Italy, 
There came a voice from over the sea, 
And with great power it forth led me 
To walk in the visions of Poesy. 



II 



I met Murder on the way — 
He had a mask like Castle reagh; 
Very smooth he looked, yet grim; 
Seven bloodhounds followed him. 



Ill 



All were fat; and well they might 

Be in admirable plight, 

For one by one, and two by two, 

He tossed them human hearts to chew. 

Which from his wide cloak he drew- 



IV 



Next came Fraud, and he had on, 
Like Eldon, an ermined gown; 
His big tears, for he wept well. 
Turned to mill-stones as they fell; 



V 



And the little children, who 

Round his feet played to and fro> 

Thinking every tear a gem. 

Had their brains knocked out by them. 



VI 



Clothed with the Bible as with light, 
And the shadows of the night. 
Like Sidmouth, next Hypocrisy 
On a crocodile rode by. 



VII 



And many more Destructions played 
In this ghastly masquerade. 
All disguised, even to the eyes. 
Like bishops, lawyers, peers or spies. 



VIII 



Last came Anarchy; he rode 

On a white horse splashed with blood; 

He was pale even to the lips. 

Like Death in the Apocalypse. 



IX 



And he wore a kingly crown; 

In his grasp a sceptre shone; 

On his brow this mark I saw — 

* I AM God, and King, and Law ! ' 



With a pace stately and fast, 
Over English land he passed, 
Trampling to a mire of blood 
The adoring multitude. 



254 



THE MASK OF ANARCHY 



XI 



And a mighty troop around 

With their trampling shook the ground, 

Waving each a bloody sword 

For the service of their Lord. 



XII 



And, with glorious triumph, they 
Rode through Englaud, proud and gay, 
Drunk as with intoxication 
Of the wine of desolation. 



XIII 



O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea, 
Passed that Pageant swift and free. 
Tearing up, and trampling down. 
Till they came to London town. 



XIV 



And each dweller, panic-stricken, 
Felt his heart with terror sicken, 
Hearing the tempestuous cry 
Of the triumph of Anarchy. 



XV 



For with pomp to meet him came, 
Clothed in arms like blood and flame. 
The hired murderers who did sing, 
* Thou art God, and Law, and King. 



XVI 



are 



* We have waited, weak and lone. 

For thy coming, Mighty One ! 

Our purses are empty, our swords 

cold, 
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.' 



XVII 

Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd. 
To the earth their pale brows bowed; 
Like a bad prayer not over loud. 
Whispering — ' Thou art Law and God ! ' 

XVIII 

Then all cried with one accord, 

' Thou art King, and God, and Lord; 

Anarchy, to thee we bow. 

Be thy name made holy now ! ' 

XIX 

And Anarchy, the Skeleton, 
Bowed and grinned to every one. 
As well as if liis education 
Had cost ten millions to the nation. 



XX 

For he knew the palaces 
Of our kings were rightly his; 
His the sceptre, crown, and globe, 
And the gold-inwoven robe. 

XXI 

So he sent his slaves before 
To seize upon the Bank and TowePp 
And was proceeding with intent 
To meet his pensioned parliament, 

XXII 

When one fled past, a maniac maid. 
And her name was Hope, she said; 
But she looked more like Despair, 
And she cried out in the air: 

XXIII 

* My father Time is weak and gray 
With waiting for a better day; 
See how idiot-like he stands. 
Fumbling with his palsied hands 

XXIV 

* He has had child after child. 
And the dust of death is piled 
Over every one but me. 
Misery ! oh, misery ! ' 

XXV 

Then she lay down in the street. 
Right before the horses' feet. 
Expecting with a patient eye 
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchyj 

XXVI 

When between her and her foes 
A mist, a light, an image rose, — 
Small at first, and weak, and frail, 
Like the vapor of a vale; 

XXVII 

Till as clouds grow on the blast, 
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast 
And glare with lightnings as they fly, 
And speak in thunder to the sky, 

XXVIII 

It grew — a Shape arrayed in mail 
Brighter than the viper's scale. 
And upborne on wings whose grain 
Was as the light of sunny rain. 



THE MASK OF ANARCHY 



^5S 



XXIX 



On its helm, seen far away, 

A planet, like the Morning's, lay; 

And those plumes its light rained through, 

Like a shower of crimson dew. 



XXX 

With step as soft as wind it passed 
O'er the heads of men — so fast 
That they knew the presence there, 
And looked — but all was empty air. 

XXXI 

As flowers beneath May's footstep waken, 
As stars from Night's loose hair are 

shaken, 
As waves arise when loud winds call. 
Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall. 

XXXII 

And the prostrate multitude 
Looked — and ankle-deep in blood, 
Hope, that maiden most serene, 
Was walking with a quiet mien; 

XXXIII 

And Anarchy, the ghastly birth. 

Lay dead earth upon the earth; 

The Horse of Death, tameless as wind 

Fled, and with his hoofs did grind 

To dust the murderers thronged behind. 

XXXIV 

A rushing light of clouds and splendor, 
A sense, awakening and yet tender. 
Was heard and felt — and at its close 
These words of joy and fear arose, 

XXXV 

As if their own indignant earth. 
Which gave the sons of England birth. 
Had felt their blood upon her brow, 
And shuddering with a mother's throe 

XXXVI 

Had turned every drop of blood. 

By which her face had been bedewed. 

To an accent unwithstood, 

As if her heart cried out aloud: 

XXXVII 

' Men of England, heirs of glory, 
Heroes of unwritten story, 
Nurslings of one mighty Mother, 
Hopes of her, and one another: 



XXXVIII 

* Rise like lions after slumber, 
In unvanquishable number; 

Shake your chains to earth like dew 
Which in sleep had fallen on you — 
Ye are many, they are few. 

XXXIX 

* What is Freedom ? — Ye can tell 
That which Slavery is too well, 
For its very name has grown 

To an echo of your own. 

XL 

' 'T is to work, and have such pay 
As just keeps life from day to day 
In your limbs, as in a cell. 
For the tyrants' use to dwell, 

XLI 

' So that ye for them are made 
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade 
With or without your own will bent 
To their defence and nourishment. 

XLII 

' 'T is to see your children weak 
With their mothers pine and peak, 
When the winter winds are bleak — 
They are dying whilst I speak. 

XLIII 

' 'T is to hunger for such diet, 
As the rich man in his riot 
Casts to the fat dogs that lie 
Surfeiting beneath his eye. 

XLIV 

' 'T is to let the Ghost of Gold 
Take from toil a thousand-fold 
More than e'er its substance could 
In the tyrannies of old ; 

XLV 

' Paper coin — that forgery 
Of the title deeds which ye 
Hold to something of the worth 
Of the inheritance of Earth. 

XLVI 

' 'T is to be a slave in soul. 
And to hold no strong control 
Over your own will, but be 
All that others make of ye. 



256 



THE MASK OF ANARCHY 



XLVII 

* And at length when ye complain 
With a murmur weak and vain, 
'T is to see the Tyrant's crew 
Ride over your wives and you — 
Blood is on the grass like dew ! 

XLVIII 

* Then it is to feel revenge, 
Fiercely thirsting to exchange 

Blood for blood — and wrong for wrong 
Do not thus when ye are strong ! 

XLIX 

* Birds find rest in narrow nest, 
When weary of their winged quest, 
Beasts find fare in woody lair. 
When storm and snow are in the air. 



* Horses, oxen, have a liome. 
When from daily toil they come ; 
Household dogs, when the wind roars, 
Find a home within warm doors. 

LI 

* Asses, swine, have litter spread. 
And with fitting food are fed ; 
All things have a home but one — 
Thou, O Englishman, hast none ! 

LII 

* This is Slavery; savage men, 
Or wild beasts within a den, 
Would endure not as ye do — 
But such ills they never knew. 

LIII 

* What art thou. Freedom ? Oh, could 

slaves 
Answer from their living graves 
This demand, tyrants would flee 
Like a dream's dim imagery. 

LIV 

' Thou art not, as impostors say, 
A shadow soon to pass away 
A superstition and a name 
Echoing from the cave of Fame. 

LV 

' For the laborer thou art bread 
And a comely table spread, 
From his daily labor come 
In a neat and happy home. 



LVI 

* Thou art clothes, and fire, and food. 
For the trampled multitude; 

No — in countries that are free 
Such starvation cannot be 
As in England now we see. 

LVII 

' To the rich thou art a check; 
When his foot is on the neck 
Of his victim, thou dost make 
That he treads upon a snake. 

LVill 

* Thou art Justice — ne'er for gold 
May thy righteous laws be sold. 
As laws are in England; thou 
Shield'st alike both high and low. 

LIX 

' Thou art Wisdom — freemen never 
Dream that God will damn forever 
All who think those things untrue 
Of which priests make such ado. 

LX 

* Thou art Peace — never by thee 
Would blood and treasure wasted be. 
As tyrants wasted them, when all 
Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul. 

LXI 

' What if English toil and blood 
Was poured forth, even as a flood ? 
It availed, O Liberty ! 
To dim, but not extinguish thee. 

LXII 

' Thou art Love — the rich have kissed 
Thy feet, and, like him following Christ, 
Give their substance to the free 
And through the rough world follow thee ; 

LXIII 

* Or turn their wealth to arms, and make 
War for thy beloved sake 

On wealth and war and fraud, whence 

they 
Drew the power which is their prey. 

LXIV 

* Science, Poetry and Thought 
Are thy lamps; they make the lot 
Of the dwellers in a cot 

Such they curse their maker not. 



THE MASK OF ANARCHY 



257 



LXV 



'Spirit, Patience, Gentleness, 

All that can adorn and bless. 

Art thou — let deeds, not words, express 

Thine exceeding loveliness. 



LXVI 



* Let a great Assembly be 
Of the fearless and the free 

On some spot of English ground. 
Where the plains stretch wide around. 

LXVII 

* Let the blue sky overhead. 

The green earth on which ye tread. 
All that must eternal be, 
Witness the solemnity. 

LXVIII 

* From the corners uttermost 
Of the bounds of English coast; 
From every hut, village and town. 
Where those, who live and suffer, moan 
For others' misery or their own; 

LXIX 

* From the workhouse and the prison, 
Where pale as corpses newly risen, 
Women, children, young and old, 
Groan for pain, and weep for cold; 

LXX 

* From the haunts of daily life, 
Where is waged the daily strife 

With common wants and common cares. 
Which sows the human heart with tares; 

LXXI 

' Lastly, from the palaces 
Where the murmur of distress 
Echoes, like the distant sound 
Of a wind alive, around 

LXXII 

* Those prison-halls of wealth and fashion. 
Where some few feel such compassion 
For those who groan, and toil, and wail. 
As must make their brethren pale; — 

LXXIII 

' Ye who suffer woes untold. 
Or to feel or to behold 
Your lost country bought and sold 
With a price of blood and gold; 



LXXIV 



* Let a vast assembly be, 

And with great solemnity 

Declare with measured words that ye 

Are, as God has made ye, free 1 



LXXV 



* Be your strong and simple words 
Keen to wound as sharpened swords; 
And wide as targes let them be. 
With their shade to cover ye. 



LXXVI 



* Let the tyrants pour around 
With a quick and startling sound, 
Like the loosening of a sea, 
Troops of armed emblazonry. 



LXXVII 



* Let the charged artillery drive 
Till the dead air seems alive 
With the clash of clanging wheels 
And the tramp of horses' heels. 

LXXVIII 

* Let the fixed bayonet 
Gleam with sharp desire to wet 
Its bright point in English blood, 
Looking keen as one for food. 

LXXIX 

' Let the horsemen's scimitars 
Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars 
Thirsting to eclipse their burning 
In a sea of death and mourning. 

LXXX 

' Stand ye calm and resolute. 

Like a forest close and mute, 

With folded arms, and looks which are 

Weapons of un vanquished war. 

LXXXI 

* And let Panic, who outspeeds 
The career of arm^d steeds. 
Pass, a disregarded shade, 
Through your phalanx undismayed. 

LXXXII 

' Let the laws of your own land, 
Good or ill, between ye stand. 
Hand to hand, and foot to foQt, 
Arbiters of the dispute: — 



»S8 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 



LXXXIII 

' The old laws of England — they 
Whose reverend heads with age are gray, 
Children of a wiser day; 
And whose solemn voice must be 
Thine own echo — Liberty ! 

LXXXIV 

* On those who first should violate 
Such sacred heralds in their state 
Rest the blood that must ensue; 
And it will not rest on you. 

LXXXV 

* And if then the tyrants dare, 
Let them ride among you there, 
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew; 
What they like, that let them do. 

LXXXVI 

* With folded arms and steady eyes, 
And little fear, and less surprise, 
Look upon them as they slay, 

Till their rage has died away. 

LXXXVII 

* Then they will return with shame 
To the place from which they came; 
And the blood thus shed will speak 
In hot blushes on their cheek. 



LXXXVIII 

' Every woman in the land 
Win point at them as they stand; 
They will liardly dare to greet 
Their acquaintance in the street. 

LXXXIX 

* And the bold true warriors. 
Who have hugged Danger in wars, 
Will turn to those who would be free, 
Ashamed of such base company. 

xc 

* And that slaughter to the Nation 
Shall steam up like inspiration, 
Eloquent, oracular; 

A volcano heard afar. 

XCI 

' And these words shall then become 
Like oppression's thmidered doom, 
Ringing through each heart and brain, 
Heard again — again — again ! 

XCII 

' Rise like lions after slumber 
In unvanquishable number ! 
Shake your chains to earth, like dew 
Which in sleep had fallen on you — 
Ye are many, they are few ! ' 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 

BY MICHING MALLECHO, ESQ. 

Is it a party in a parlor, 

Crammed just as they on earth were crammed, 
Some sipping punch — some sipping tea ; 
But, as you by their faces see, 

All silent, and all damned ! 

Peter Bell, by W. Wordsworth. 

Ophelia. — What means this, my lord? 

Hamlet. — Marry, this is Miching Mallecho ; it means mischief. 

Shakespeare. 



Peter Bell the Third was suggested by some 
reviews, in The Examiner, of Wordsworth's 
Peter Bell and of John Hamilton Reynolds's 
satire on Wordsworth of the same title. They 
amused Shelley, and he wrote the present poem 
in that vein of fun which seldom appeared 
in his verse, though it was a characteristic 
trait of his private life. ' I think Peter not 
bad in his way,' wrote Shelley to Oilier. ' but 
perhaps no one will believe in anything- in the 
shape of a joke from me.' Shelley's satire is 



meant pleasantly enough, as his admiration for 
Wordsworth's poetic powers is evident in many 
ways, and he was careful to chang-e the name 
Emma to Betty, having- inadvertently used the 
former, — ' Emma, I recollect, is the real name 
of the sister of a great poet who might be miis- 
taken for Peter.'' Mrs. Shelley in her note 
states tlie case frankly and fairly : 

' A critique on Wordsworth's Peter Bell 
reached us at Leghorn, which amused Shelley 
exceedingly and suggested this poem. I need 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 



259 



scarcely observe that nothing personal to the 
Author of Peter Bell is intended in this poem. 
No man ever admired Wordsworth's poetry 
more ; — he read it perpetually, and taug-ht 
others to appreciate its beauties. This jjoem 
is, like all others written by Shelley, ideal. 
He conceived the idealism of a poet — a man 
of lofty and creative genius — quitting- the 
g-lorious calling of discovering and announcing 
the beautiful and good, to support and propa- 
gate ignorant prejudices and pernicious errors ; 
imparting to the unenlightened, not that ardor 
for truth and spirit of toleration which Shelley 
looked on as the sources of the moral improve- 
ment and happiness of mankind ; but false and 
injurious opinions, that evil was good, and that 
ignorance and force were the best allies of 
purity and virtue. His idea was that a man 
gifted even as transcendently as the Author 
of Peter Bell, with the highest qualities of 
genius, must, if he fostered such errors, be in- 
fected with dulness. This poem was written, 
as a warning — not as a narration of the real- 
ity. He was unacquainted personally with 
Wordsworth or with Coleridge (to whom he 
alludes in the fifth part of the poem), and 
therefore, I repeat, his poem is purely ideal ; 
— it contains something of criticism on the 
compositions of these great poets, but nothing 
injurious to the men themselves. 

' No poem contains more of Shelley's peculiar 
views, with regard to the errors into which 
many of the wisest have fallen, and of the per- 
nicious effects of certain opinions on society. 
Much of it is beautifully written — and though, 
like the burlesque drama of Swellfoot, it must 
be looked on as a plaything, it has so much 
merit and poetry — so much of himself in it, 
that it cannot fail to interest greatly, and by 
right belongs to the world for whose instruc- 
tion and benefit it was written.' 

Shelley's own account of the burlesque is 
given in a letter to Hunt : 

' Now, I only send you a very heroic poem, 
which I wish you to give to Oilier, and desire 
him to print and publish immediately, you 
being kind enough to take upon yourself the 
correction of the press — not. however, Avith my 
name ; and you must tell Oilier that the author 
is to be kept a secret, and that I confide in him 
for this object as I would confide in a physician 
or lawyer, or any other man whose professional 
situation renders the betraying of what is en- 
trusted a dishonor. My motive in this is solely 
not to prejudge myself in the present moment, 
as I have only expended a few days in this 
party squib, and, of course, taken little pains. 
The verses and language I have let come as 
they would, and I am about to publish more 
serious things this winter ; afterwards, that is 
next year, if the thing should be remembered 



so long, I have no objection to the author being 
known, but not now. I should like well enough 
that it should both go to press and be printed 
very quickly ; as more serious things are on 
the eve of engaging both the public attention 
and mine.' 

The poem was written at Florence, in the 
latter part of October, 1819, and sent forward 
to Hunt at once for publication. It did not 
appear, however, until twenty years after, when 
it was included in Mrs. Shelley's second edition 
of the collected poems, 1839. 



DEDICATION 

TO THOMAS BROWN, ESQ., THE TOUNGER, H. F. 

Dear Tom, — Allow me to request you to 
introduce Mr. Peter Bell to the respectable 
family of the Fudges. Although he may fall 
short of those very considerable personages in 
the more active properties which characterize 
the Rat and the Apostate, I suspect that even 
you, their historian, will confess that he sur- 
passes them in the more peculiarly legitimate 
qualification of intolerable dulness. 

You know Mr. Examiner Hunt ; well — it 
was he who presented me to two of the Mr. 
Bells. My intimacy with the younger Mr. 
Bell naturally sprung from this introduction 
to his brothers. And in presenting him to you 
I have the satisfaction of being able to assure 
you that he is considerably the dullest of the 
three. 

There is this particular advantage in an ac- 
quaintance with any one of the Peter Bells 
that, if you know one Peter Bell, you know 
three Peter Bells ; they are not one, but three ; 
not three, but one. An awful mystery, which, 
after having caused torrents of blood and hav- 
ing been hymned by groans enough to deafen 
the music of the spheres, is at length illustrated 
to the satisfaction of all parties in the theo- 
logical world by the nature of Mr. Peter Bell. 

Peter is a polyhedric Peter, or a Peter with 
many sides. He changes colors like a chame- 
leon and his coat like a snake. He is a Pro- 
teus of a Peter. He was at first sublime, 
pathetic, impressive, profound ; then dull ; 
then prosy and dull ; and now dull — oh, so 
very dull ! it is an ultra-legitimate dulness. 

You will perceive that it is not necessary to 
consider Hell and the Devil as supernatural 
machinery. The whole scene of my epic is in 
' this world which is ' — so Peter informed us 
before his conversion to White Obi — 
The world of all of us, and where 
We find our happiness, or not at all. 

Let me observe that I have spent six or 
seven days in composing this sublime piece; 



26o 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 



the orb of my moon-like genius has made the 
fourth part of its reyolution round tlie dull 
earth which you inhabit, driving you mad, 
while it has retained its calmness and its 
splendor, and I have been fitting this its last 
phase ' to occupy a permanent station in the 
literature of my country.' 

Your works, indeed, dear Tom, sell better ; 
but mine are far superior. The public is no 
judge ; posterity sets all to rights. 

Allow me to observe that so much has been 
written of Peter Bell that the present history 
can be considered only, like the Iliad, as a 
continuation of that series of cyclic poems 
which have already been candidates for be- 
stowing immortality upon, at the same time 
that they receive it from, his character and 
adventures. In this point of view I have vio- 
lated no rule of syntax in beginning my com- 
position with a conjunction ; the full stop, 
which closes the poem continued by me, being, 
like the full stops at the end of the Iliad and 
Odyssey, a full stop of a very qualified import. 

PROLOGUE 

Peter Bells, one, two and three, 

O'er the wide world wandering be. 

First, the antenatal Peter, 

Wrapped in weeds of the same metre. 

The so long predestined raiment, 

Clothed in which to walk his way meant 

The second Peter ; whose ambition 

Is to link the proposition, 

As the mean of two extremes, 

(This was learned from Aldrich's themes). 

Shielding from the gnilt of schism 

The orthodoxal syllogism ; 

The First Peter — he who was 

Like the shadow in the glass 

Of the second, yet unripe. 

His substantial antitype. 

Then came Peter Bell the Second, 

Who henceforward must be reckoned 

The body of a double soul, 

And that portion of the whole 

Without which the rest would seem 

Ends of a disjointed dream. 

And the Third is he who has 

O'er the grave been forced to pass 

To the other side, which is — 

Go and try else — just like this. 

Peter Bell the First was Peter 

Smugger, milder, softer, neater, 

Like the soul before it is 

Born from that world into this. 

The next Peter Bell was he, 



Hoping that the immortality which you have 
given to the Fudges, you will receive from 
them ; and in the firm expectation that when 
London shall be an habitation of bitterns, when 
St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey shall stand, 
shapeless and nameless ruins, in the midst of 
an unpeopled marsh ; when the piers of Water- 
loo Bridge shall become the nuclei of islets of 
reeds and osiers, and cast the jagged shadows 
of their broken arches on the solitary stream, 
some transatlantic commentator will be weigh- 
ing in the scales of some new and now unim- 
agined system of criticism the respective 
merits of the Bells and the Fudges and their 
historians, 

I remain, dear Tom, 

Yours sincerely, 

December 1, 1819. Miching Mallecho. 

P. S. — Pray excuse the date of place ; so 
soon as the profits of the publication come in, 
I mean to hire lodgings in a more respectable 
street. 

Predevote, like you and me, 
To good or evil, as may come; 
His was the severer doom, — 
For he was an evil Cotter, 
And a polygamic Potter. 
And the last is Peter Bell, 
Damned since our first parents fell, 
Damned eternally to Hell — 
Surely he deserves it well ! 



PART THE FIRST 



DEATH 



And Peter Bell, when he had been 

With fresh-imported Hell-fire warmed, 

Grew serious — from his dress and mien 

'T was very plainly to be seen 
Peter was quite reformed. 



II 



His 



eyes turned up, his mouth turned 
down; 
His accent caught a nasal twang; 
He oiled his hair; there might be heard 
The grace of God in every word 
Which Peter said or sang. 

Ill 

But Peter now grew old, and had 
An ill no doctor could unravelj 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 



261 



His torments almost drove him mad; 
Some s?i,id it was a fever bad; 
Some swore it was the gravel. 



IV 



His holy friends then came about, 

And with long preaching and persuasion 

Convinced the patient that without 

The smallest shadow of a doubt 
He was predestined to damnation. 



They said — * Thy name is Peter Bell; 

Thy skin is of a brimstone hue; 
Alive or dead — ay, sick or well — 
The one God made to rhyme with hell; 

The other, I think, rhymes with you.' 

VI 

Then Peter set up such a yell ! 

The nurse, who with some water gruel 
Was climbing up the stairs, as well 
As her old legs could climb them — fell. 

And broke them both — the fall was 
cruel. 

VII 

The Parson from the casement leapt 

Into the lake of Windermere ; 
And many an eel — though no adept 
In God's right reason for it — kept 

Gnawing his kidneys half a year. 

VIII 

And all the rest rushed through the door, 

And tumbled over one another, 
And broke their skulls. — Upon the floor 
Meanwhile sat Peter Bell, and swore, 
And cursed his father and his mother; 

IX 

And raved of God, and sin, and death, 

Blaspheming like an infidel; 
And said that with his clenched teeth 
He 'd seize the earth from underneath 

And drag it with him down to hell. 



As he was speaking came a spasm 

And wrenched his gnashing teeth asun- 
der; 
Like one who sees a strange phantasm 
He lay, — there was a silent chasm 
Betwixt his upper jaw and under. 



XI 

And yellow death lay on his face; 

And a fixed smile that was not human 
Told, as I understand the case. 
That he was gone to the wrong place. 

I heard all this from the old woman. 

XII 

Then there came down from Lansrdale 
Pike ^ 

A cloud, with lightning, wind and hail; 
It swept over the mountains like 
An ocean, — and I heard it strike 

The woods and crags of Grasmere vale. 

XIII 

And I saw the black storm come 

Nearer, minute after minute; 
Its thunder made the cataracts dumb; 
With hiss, and clash, and hollow num, 

It neared as if the Devil was in it. 

XIV 

The Devil was in it ; he had bought 
Peter for half-a-crown; and when 

The storm which bore him vanished, 
nought 

That in the house that storm had caught 
Was ever seen again. 

XV 
The gaping neighbors came next day; 

They found all vanished from the shore; 
The Bible, whence he used to pray, 
Half scorched under a hen-coop lay; 

Smashed glass — and nothing more ! 



PART THE SECOND 

THE DEVIL 
I 

The Devil, I safely can aver, 

Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting; 
Nor is he, as some sages swear, 
A spirit, neither here nor there, 

In nothing — yet in everything. 

II 

He is — what we are ; for sometimes 

The Devil is a gentleman ; 
At others a bard bartering rhymes 
For sack; a statesman spinning crimes; 

A swindler, living as he can; 



262 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 



III 



A thief, who cometh in the night, 

With whole boots and net pantaloons, 
Like some one whom it were not right 
To mention, — or the luckless wight. 
From whom he steals nine silver spoons. 



IV 



But in this case he did appear 

Like a slop-merchant from Wapping, 
And with smug face and eye severe 
On every side did perk and peer 
Till he saw Peter dead or napping. 



He had on an upper Benjamin 

(For he was of the driving schism) 
In the which he wrapped his skin 
From the storm he travelled in, 
For fear of rheumatism. 

VI 

He called the ghost out of the corse, — 
It was exceedingly like Peter, 

Only its voice was hollow and hoarse; 

It had a queerish look, of course; 
Its dress too was a little neater. 

VII 

The Devil knew not his name and lot; 

Peter knew not that he was Bell ; 
Each had an upper stream of thought, 
Which made all seem as it was not. 

Fitting itself to all things well. 

VIII 

Peter thought he had parents dear. 
Brothers, sisters, cousins, cronies, 

In the fens of Lincolnshire; 

He perhaps had found them there 
Had he gone and boldly shown his 

IX 

Solemn phiz in his own village, 

Where he thought oft when a boy 
He 'd clonib the orchard walls to pillage 
The produce of his neighbor's tillage, 
With marvellous pride and joy. 



And the Devil thought he had, 

'Mid the misery and confusion 
Of an unjust war, just made 
A fortune by the gainful trade 



Of giving soldiers rations bad — 

The world is full of strange delusion; 



XI 



That he had a mansion planned 

In a square like Grosvenor-square, 
That he was aping fashion, and 
That he now came to Westmoreland 
To see what was romantic there. 



XII 



And all this, though quite ideal, 

Ready at a breath to vanish. 
Was a state not more unreal 
Than the peace he could not feel, 
Or the care he could not banish. 



XIII 

After a little conversation, 

The Devil told Peter, if he chose. 

He 'd bring him to the world of fashion 

By giving him a situation 

In his own service — and new clothes. 

XIV 

And Peter bowed, quite pleased and proud. 

And after waiting some few days 
For a new livery — dirty yellow 
Turned up with black — the wretched 
fellow 
Was bowled to Hell in the Devil's 
chaise. 



PART THE THIRD 



HELL 



Hell is a city much like London — 

A populous and a smoky city; 
There are all sorts of people undone. 
And there is little or no fun done; 

Small justice shown, and still less pity. 

II 

There is a Castles, and a Canning, 

A Cobbett, and a Castlereagh; 

All sorts of caitiff corpses planning 

All sorts of cozening for trepanning 

Corpses less corrupt than they. 



There is a 



III 
-, who has lost 



His wits, or sold them, none knows which; 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 



263 



He walks about a double ghost, 
And, though as thin as Fraud almost. 
Ever grows more grim and rich. 



IV 



There is a Chancery Court; a King; 

A manufacturing mob; a set 
Of thieves who by themselves are sent 
Similar thieves to represent; 

An army; and a public debt. 



Which last is a scheme of paper money, 

And means — being interpreted — 
* Bees, keep your wax — give us the honey. 
And we will plant, while skies are sunny. 
Flowers, which in winter serve instead.' 

VI 

There is great talk of revolution — 

And a great chance of despotism — 
German soldiers — camps — confusion — 
Tumults — lotteries — rage — delusion — 
Gin — suicide — and methodism; 

VII 

Taxes too, on wine and bread, 

And meat, and beer, and tea, and cheese. 
From which those patriots pure are fed. 
Who gorge before they reel to bed, 

The tenfold essence of all these. 

VIII 

There are mincing women, mewing 

(Like cats, who amant misere) 
Of their own virtue, and pursuing 
Their gentler sisters to that ruin 

Without which — what were chastity ? 

IX 

Lawyers — judges — old hobnobbers 

Are there — bailiJffs — chancellors — 
Bishops — great and little robbers — 
Rhymesters — pamphleteers — stock-job- 
bers — 
Men of glory in the wars; 



Things whose trade is, over ladies 

To lean, and flirt, and stare, and sim- 
per, 
Till all that is divine in woman 
Grows cruel, courteous,, smooth, inhuman, 
Crucified 'twixt a smile and whimper; 



XI 



Thrusting, toiling, wailing, moiling. 

Frowning, preaching — such a riot ! 
Each with never-ceasing labor, 
Whilst he thinks he cheats his neighbor, 
Cheating his own heart of quiet. 



XII 

And all these meet at levees; 

Dinners convivial and political; 
Suppers of epic poets; teas, 
Where small talk dies in agonies; 

Breakfasts professional and critical; 

XIII 

Lunches and snacks so aldermanic 

That one would furnish forth ten din- 
ners, 
Where reigns a Cretan-tongu^d panic. 
Lest news Russ, Dutch, or Alemannic 
Should make some losers, and some 
winners ; 

XIV 

At conversazioni — balls — 

Conventicles — and drawing-rooms — 
Courts of law — committees — calls 
Of a morning — clubs — book-stalls — 

Churches — masquerades — and tombs 

XV 

And this is Hell — and in this smother 
Are all damnable and damned; 

Each one, damning, damns the other; 

They are damned by one another. 
By none other are they damned. 

XVI 

'T is a lie to say, ' God damns ! ' 

Where was Heaven's Attorney-General 

When they first gave out such flams ? 

Let there be an end of shams; 

They are mines of poisonous mineral. 

XVII 

Statesmen damn themselves to be 

Cursed; and lawyers danm their souls 

To the auction of a fee ; 

Churchmen damn themselves to see 
God's sweet love in burning coals. 

XVIII 
The rich are damned, beyond all cure, 
To taunt, and starve, and trample on 



264 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 



The weak and wretched; and the poor 
Damn their broken hearts to endure 
Stripe on stripe, with groan on groan. 

XIX 

Sometimes the poor are damned indeed 
To take, not means for being blessed, 
But Cobbett's snuff, revenge; that weed 
From which the worms that it doth feed 
Squeeze less than they before pos- 
sessed. 

XX 

And some few, like we know who, 

Damned — but God alone knows why — 
To believe their minds are given 
To make this ugly Hell a Heaven; 
In which faith they live and die. 

XXI 

Thus, as in a town, plague-stricken, 

Each man, be he sound or no, 
Must indifferently sicken; 
As when day begins to thicken, 

None knows a pigeon from a crow; 

XXII 

So good and bad, sane and mad, 

The oppressor and the oppressed; 
Those who weep to see what others 
Smile to inflict upon their brothers; 
Lovers, haters, worst and best; 

XXIII 

All are damned — they breathe an air, 
Thick, infected, joy-dispelling; 

Each pursues what seems most fair. 

Mining, like moles, through mind, and 
there 

Scoop palace-caverns vast, where Care 
In throned state is ever dwelling. 



PART THE FOURTH 

SIN 

I 

Lo, Peter in Hell's Grosvenor-square, 

A footman in the Devil's service ! 
And the misjudging world would swear 
That every man in service there 
To virtue would prefer vice. 



II 



But Peter, though now damned, was not 

What Peter was before damnation. 
Men oftentimes prepare a lot 
Which, ere it finds them, is not what 
Suits with their genuine station. 



Ill 



All things that Peter saw and felt 

Had a peculiar aspect to him ; 
And when they came within the belt 
Of his own nature, seemed to melt, 
Like cloud to cloud, into him. 



IV 



And so the outward world uniting 
To that within him, he became 

Considerably uninviting 

To those, who meditation slighting, 
Were moulded in a different frame. 



And he scorned them, and they scorned 
him ; 

And he scorned all they did; and they 
Did all that men of their own trim 
Are wont to do to please their whim — 

Drinking, lying, swearing, play. 

VI 

Such were his fellow-servants; thus 
His virtue, like our own, was built 

Too much on that indignant fuss 

Hypocrite Pride stirs up in us 
To bully one another's guilt. 

VII 

He had a mind which was somehow 
At once circumference and centre 

Of all he might or feel or know; 

Nothing went ever out, although 
Something did ever enter. 

VIII 

He had as much imagination 
As a pint-pot; — he never could 

Fancy another situation. 

From which to dart his contemplation, 
Than that wherein he stood. 

IX 

Yet his was individual mind. 

And new-created all he saw 
In a new manner, and refined 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 



265 



Those new creations, and combined 
Them, by a master-spirit's law 



Thus — though unimaginative — 
An apprehension clear, intense, 
Of his mind's work, had made alive 
The things it wrought on; I believe 
Wakening a sort of thought in sense. 

XI 

But from the first 't was Peter's drift 

To be a kind of moral eunuch; 
He touched the hem of Nature's shift, 
Felt faint — and never dared uplift 
The closest, all-concealing tunic. 

XII 

She laughed the while, with an arch 
smile, 

And kissed him with a sister's kiss, 
And said — * My best Diogenes, 
1 love you well — but, if you please. 

Tempt tiot again my deepest bliss. 

XIII 

'T is you are cold — for I, not coy, 
Yield love for love, frank, warm and 
true; 
And Burns, a Scottish peasant boy — 
His errors prove it — knew my joy 
More, learned friend, than you. 

XIV 

* Bocca hacciata nonperde ventura 

A nzi rinnuova come fa la lima : — 
So thought Boccaccio, whose sweet words 

might cure a 
Male prude, like you, from what you now 
endure, a 
Low-tide in soul, like a stagnant laguna.' 

XV 
Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe. 

And smoothed his spacious forehead 
down, 
With his broad palm; 'twixt love and 

fear. 
He looked, as he no doubt felt, queer, 
And in his dream sate down. 

XVI 

The Devil was no uncommon creature; 

A leaden-witted thief — just huddled 
Out of the dross and scum of nature; 



A toad-like lump of limb and feature. 
With mind, and heart, and fancy mud- 
dled. 

XVII 

He was that heavy, dull, cold thing, 
The spirit of evil well may be; 

A drone too base to have a sting; 

Who gluts, and grimes his lazy wing, 
And calls lust luxury. 

XVIII 

Now he was quite the kind of wight 

Round whom collect, at a fixed era, 
Venison, turtle, hock, and claret, — 
Good cheer — and those who come to share 
it — 
And best East Indian madeira ! 

XIX 

It was his fancy to invite 

Men of science, wit, and learning, 
Who came to lend each other light; 
He proudly thought that his gold's might 

Had set those spirits burning. 

XX 

And men of learning, science, wit. 

Considered him as you and I 
Think of some rotten tree, and sit 
Lounging and dining under it, 

Exposed to the wide sky. 

XXI 

And all the while, with loose fat smile, 
The willing wretch sat winking there, 
Believing 't was his power that made 
That jovial scene — and that all paid 
Homage to his unnoticed chair; 

XXII 

Though to be sure this place was Hell; 

He was the Devil — and all they — 
What though the claret circled well. 
And wit, like ocean, rose and fell ? — 

Were damned eternally. 



PART THE FIFTH 

GRACE 



Among the guests who often stayed 
Till the Devil's petits-soupers, 



266 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 



A man there came, fair as a maid, 
Aud Peter noted what he said, 

Standing behind his master's chair. 



II 

He was a mighty poet — and 

A subtle-souled psychologist; 
All things he seemed to understand, 
Of old or new — of sea or land — 

But his own mind 7— which was a mist. 

Ill 

This was a man who might have turned 
Hell into Heaven — and so in gladness 

A Heaven unto himself have earned; 

But he in shadows undiscerned 

Trusted, — and damned himself to mad- 
ness. 

IV 

He spoke of poetry, and how 

' Divine it was — a light — a love — 

A spirit which like wind doth blow 

As it listeth, to and fro; 

A dew rained down from God above; 



* A power which comes and goes like 
dream, 
And which none can ever trace — 
Heaven's light on earth — Truth's brightest 

beam.' 
And when he ceased there lay the gleam 
Of those words upon his face. 

VI 

Now Peter, when he heard such talk. 
Would, heedless of a broken pate. 
Stand like a man asleep, or balk 
Some wishing guest of knife or fork, 
Or drop and break his master's plate. 

VII 

A.t night he oft would start and wake 

Like a lover, and began 
£n a wild measure songs to make 
On moor, and glen, and rocky lake, 

And on the heart of man, — 

VIII 

A.nd on the universal sky, 

And the wide earth's bosom green, 
And the sweet, strange mystery 
Df wliat beyond these things may lie, 

And yet remain unseen. 



IX 
For in his thought he visited 

The spots in which, ere dead and damned, 
He his wayward life had led; 
Yet knew not whence the thoughts were 
fed. 
Which thus his fancy crammed. 



And these obscure remembrances 
Stirred such harmony in Peter, 
That whensoever he should please, 
He could speak of rocks and trees 
In poetic metre. 

XI 

For though it was without a sense 
Of memory, yet he remembered well 

Many a ditch and quick-set fence; 

Of lakes he had intelligence; 

He knew something of heath and fell. 

XII 

He had also dim recollections 

Of pedlers tramping on their rounds; 
Milk-pans and pails; and odd collections 
Of saws and proverbs; and reflections 
Old parsons make in burying-grounds. 

XIII 

But Peter's verse was clear, and came 
Announcing from the frozen hearth 

Of a cold age, that none might tame 

The soul of that diviner flame 
It augured to the Earth; 

XIV 

Like gentle rains, on the dry plains. 

Making that green which late was gray, 
Or like the sudden moon, that stains 
Some gloomy chamber's window panes 
With a broad light like day. 

XV 

For language was in Peter's hand 

Like clay while he was yet a potter; 
And he made songs for all the land. 
Sweet, both to feel and understand. 
As pipkins late to mountain cotter. 



And Mr. 



XVI 

the bookseller. 



Gave twenty pounds for some; 
scorning 



then 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 



267 



A footman's yellow coat to wear, 
Peter, too proud of heart, I fear. 
Instantly gave the Devil warning. 

XVII 

Whereat the Devil took offence, 

And swore in his soul a great oath 
then, 
' That for his damned impertinence, 
He 'd bring him to a proper sense 
Of what was due to gentlemen ! ' 



PART THE SIXTH 

DAMNATION 

I 

* O THAT mine enemy had written 

A book ! ' — cried Job ; a fearful curse, 
If to the Arab, as the Briton, 
'T was galling to be critic-bitten; 

The Devil to Peter wished no worse. 

II 

When Peter's next new book found vent. 
The Devil to all the first Reviews 

A copy of it slyly sent. 

With five-pound note as compliment, 
And this short notice — ' Pray abuse.' 

Ill 

Then seriatim, month and quarter, 

Appeared such mad tirades. One said, — 
' Peter seduced Mrs. Foy's daughter, 
Then drowned the mother in Ullswater 
The last thing as he went to bed.' 

IV 

Another — ' Let him shave his head ! 

Where 's Dr. Willis ? — Or is he jok- 
ing ? 
What does the rascal mean or hope. 
No longer imitating Pope, 

In that barbarian Shakespeare poking ? ' 



One more, * Is incest not enough. 
And must there be adultery too ? 

Grace after meat ? Miscreant and Liar ! 

Thief ! Blackguard ! Scoundrel ! Fool ! 
Hell-fire 
Is twenty times too good for you. 



VI 

* By that last book of yours WE think 
You 've double damned yourself to 
scorn; 
We warned you whilst yet on the brink 
You stood. From your black name will 
shrink 
The babe that is unborn.' 

VII 

All these Reviews the Devil made 

Up in a parcel, which he had 
Safely to Peter's house conveyed. 
For carriage, tenpence Peter paid — 

Untied them — read them — went half- 
mad. 

VIII 

' What ! ' cried he, ' this is my reward 
For nights of thought, and days of 
toil? 
Do poets, but to be abhorred 
By men of whom they never heard, 
Consume their spirits' oil ? 



IX 

done 



to them ? — and 



' What have 
who 

Is Mrs, Foy ? 'T is very cruel 
To speak of me and Betty so ! 
Adultery ! God defend me ! Oh ! 

I 've half a mind to fight a duel. 



' Or,' cried he, a grave look collecting, 

* Is it my genius, like the moon, 
Sets those who stand her face inspecting. 
That face within their brain reflecting, 
Like a crazed bell-chime, out of tune ? 

XI 

For Peter did not know the town, 
But thought, as country readers do, 

For half a guinea or a crown 

He bought oblivion or renown 

From God's own voice in a Review. 

XII 

All Peter did on this occasion 

Was writing some sad stuff in prose. 
It is a dangerous invasion 
When poets criticise; their station 
Is to delight, not pose. 



268 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 



XIII 

The Devil then sent to Leipsic fair, 

For Bern's translation of Kant's book; 
A world of words, tail foremost, where 
Right, wrong, false, true, and foul, and 
fair 
As in a lottery- wheel are shook ; 

XIV 

Five thousand crammed octavo pages 

Of German psychologies, — he 
Who his furor verborum assuages 
Thereon deserves just seven months' wages 
More than will e'er be due to me. 

XV 

I looked on them nine several days. 

And then I saw that they were bad; 
A friend, too, spoke in their dispraise, — 
He never read them; with amaze 

I found Sir William Drummond had. 

XVI 

When the book came, the Devil sent 

It to P. Verbovale, Esquire, 
With a brief note of compliment. 
By that night's Carlisle mail. It went. 

And set his soul on fire — 

XVII 

Fire, which ex luce prcebens fumum, 
Made him beyond the bottom see 

Of truth's clear well — when I and you. 
Ma'am, 

Go, as we shall do, suhter humum, 
We may know more than he. 

XVIII 

Now Peter ran to seed in soul 

Into a walking paradox; 
For he was neither part nor whole, 
Nor good, nor bad, nor knave nor fool, — 

Among the woods and rocks. 

XIX 

Furious he rode, where late he ran, 
Lashing and spurring his tame hobby; 

Turned to a formal puritan, 

A solemn and unsexual man, — 
He half believed White Obi. 

XX 

This steed in vision he would ride. 
High trotting over nine-inch bridges, 



With Flibbertigibbet, imp of pride. 
Mocking and mowing by his side — 
A mad-brained goblin for a guide — 
Over cornfields, gates and hedges. 

XXI 

After these ghastly rides, he came 

Home to his heart, and found from 
thence 

Much stolen of its accustomed flame; 

His thoughts grew weak, drowsy, and lame 
Of their intelligence. 

XXII 

To Peter's view, all seemed one hue; 

He was no whig, he was no toryj 
No Deist and no Christian he; 
He got so subtle that to be 

Nothing was all his glory. 

XXIII 

One single point in his belief 

From his organization sprung. 
The heart-enrooted faith, the chief 
Ear in his doctrines' blighted sheaf, 
That ' happiness is wrong.' 

XXIV 

So thought Calvin and Dominic; 

So think their fierce successors, who 
Even now would neither stint nor stick 
Our flesh from off our bones to pick. 

If they might * do their do.' 

XXV 

His morals thus were undermined; 

The old Peter — the hard, old Potter 
Was born anew within his mind; 
He grew dull, harsh, sly, unrefined, 

As when he tramped beside the Otte: 

XXVI 

In the death hues of agony 

Lambently flashing from a fish. 
Now Peter felt amused to see 
Shades like a rainbow's rise and flee, 
Mixed with a certain hungry wish. 

XXVII 

So in his Country's dying face 

He looked — and lovely as she lay, 
Seeking in vain his last embrace. 
Wailing her own abandoned case. 

With hardened sneer he turned away; 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 



269 



XXVIII 

And coolly to his own soul said, — 

' Do you not think that we might make 

A poem on her when she 's dead; 

Or, no — a thought is in ray head — 
Her shroud for a new sheet I '11 take; 

XXIX 

* My wife wants one. Let who will bury 
This mangled corpse ! And I and you, 
My dearest Soul, will then make merry, 
As the Prince Regent did with Sherry, — 
Ay — and at last desert me too.' 

XXX 

And so his soul would not be gay, 

But moaned within him; like a fawn 
Moaning within a cave, it lay 
Wounded and wasting, day by day, 
Till all its life of life was gone. 

XXXI 

As troubled skies stain waters clear, 
The storm in Peter's heart and mind 

Now made his verses dark and queer; 

They were the ghosts of what they were. 
Shaking dim grave clothes in the wind. 

XXXII 

For he now raved enormous folly, 

Of Baptisms, Sunday-schools, and 
Graves; 
'T would make George Colman melancholy 
To have heard him, like a male Molly, 
Chanting those stupid staves. 

XXXIII 

Yet the Reviews, who heaped abuse 

On Peter while he wrote for freedom. 
So soon as in his song they spy 
The folly which soothes tyranny. 
Praise him, for those who feed 'em. 

XXXIV 

•He was a man, too great to scan; 

A planet lost in truth's keen rays; 
His virtue, awful and prodigious; 
He was the most sublime, religious. 

Pure-minded Poet of these days.' 

XXXV 

As soon as he read that, cried Peter, 

' Eureka ! I have found the way 
To make a better thing of metre 



Than e'er was made by living creature 
Up to this blessed day.' 

XXXVI 

Then Peter wrote odes to the Devil, 
In one of which he meekly said: 

* May Carnage and Slaughter, 
Thy niece and thy daughter, 
May Rapine and Famine, 
Thy gorge ever cramming, 

Glut thee with living and dead ! 

XXXVII 

' May death and damnation. 

And consternation, 
Flit up from hell with pure intent ! 

Slash them at Manchester, 

Glasgow, Leeds and Chester; 
Drench all with blood from Avon to Trent 

XXXVIII 

* Let thy body-guard yeomen 

Hew down babes and women 
And laugh with bold triumph till Heaven 
be rent ! 
When Moloch in Jewry 
Munched children with fury. 
It was thou. Devil, dining with pure in- 
tent.' 



PART THE SEVENTH 



DOUBLE DAMNATION 



The Devil now knew his proper cue. 

Soon as he read the ode, he drove 
To his friend Lord MacMurderchouse's, 
A man of interest in both houses, 

And said: — ' For money or for love, 

II 

' Pray find some cure or sinecure; 

To feed from the superfluous taxes, 
A friend of ours — a poet; fewer 
Have fluttered tamer to the lure 

Than he.' His lordship stands and racks 
his 

III 

Stupid brains, while one might count 
As many beads as he had boroughs, — 



270 



PETER BELL THE THIRD 



At length replies, from his mean front, 
Like one who rubs out an account, 

Smoothing away the unmeaning fur- 
rows: 



IV 



* It happens fortunately, dear Sir, 

I can. I hope I need require 
No pledge from you that he will stir 
In our affairs; — like Oliver, 

That he '11 be worthy of his hire.' 



These words exchanged, the news sent off 

To Peter, home the Devil hied, — 
Took to his bed ; he had no cough, 
No doctor, — meat and drink enough, — 
Yet that same night he died. 

VI 

The Devil's corpse was leaded down; 

His decent heirs enjoyed his pelf ; 
Mourning-coaches, many a one. 
Followed his hearse along the town; — 

Where was the Devil himself ? 

VII 

When Peter heard of his promotion, 

His eyes grew like two stars for bliss; 
There was a bow of sleek devotion, 
Engendering in his back; each motion 
Seemed a Lord's shoe to kiss. 

VIII 

He hired a house, bought plate, and 
made 

A genteel drive up to his door, 
With sifted gravel neatly laid, 
As if defying all who said, 

Peter was ever poor. 

IX 

But a disease soon struck into 

The very life and soul of Peter; 
He walked about — slept — had the hue 
Of health upon his cheeks — and few 
Dug better — none a heartier eater. 



And yet a strange and horrid curse 
Clung upon Peter, night and day; 
Month after month the thing grew worie, 
And deadlier than in this my verse 
I can find strength to say. 



XI 

Peter was dull — he was at first 

Dull — oh, so dull — so very dull ! 
Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed — 
Still with this dulness was he cursed — 
Dull — beyond all conception — dull. 

XII 

No one could read his books — no mortal. 
But a few natural friends, would hear 
him ; 
The parson came not near his portal; 
His state was like that of the immortal 
Described by Swift — no man could bear 
him. 

XIII 

His sister, wife, and children yawned. 
With a long, slow, and drear ennui. 

All human patience far beyond; 

Their hopes of Heaven each would have 
pawned 
Anywhere else to be. 

XIV 

But in his verse, and in his prose, 
The essence of his dulness was 
Concentred and compressed so close, 
'T would have made Guatimozin doze 
On his red gridiron of brass. 

XV 

A printer's boy, folding those pages. 
Fell slumbrously upon one side. 

Like those famed seven who slept three 
ages; 

To wakeful frenzy's vigil rages. 
As opiates, were the same applied. 

XVI 

Even the Reviewers who were hired 
To do the work of his reviewing, 

With adamantine nerves, grew tired; 

Gaping and torpid they retired 

To dream of what they should be do- 
ing. 

XVII 

And worse and worse the drowsy curse 
Yawned in him, till it grew a pest — 

A wide contagious atmosphere 

Creeping like cold through all things 
near, 
A power to infect and to infest 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS 



271 



XVIII 

flis servant-maids and dogs grew dull; 

His kitten, late a sportive elf ; 
The woods and lakes, so beautiful, 
Of dim stupidity were full ; 

All grew dull as Peter's self. 

XIX 

The earth under his feet — the springs 

Which lived within it a quick life, 
The air, the winds of many wings 
That fan it with new murmurings, 
Were dead to their harmonious strife. 

XX 

The birds and beasts within the wood, 
The insects, and each creeping thing, 

Were now a silent multitude; 

Love's work was left 
brood 
Near Peter's house took wing. 

XXI 

And every neighboring cottager 
Stupidly yawned upon the other ; 



un wrought 



no 



No jackass brayed; no little cur 
Cocked up his ears ; no man would stir 
To save a dying mother. 

XXII 

Yet all from that charmed district went 

But some half-idiot and half-knave, 
Who rather than pay any rent 
Would live with marvellous content 
Over his father's grave. 

XXIII 

No bailiff dared within that space, 

For fear of the dull charm, to enter; 
A man would bear upon his face. 
For fifteen months in any case, 
The yawn of such a venture. 

XXIV 

Seven miles above — below — around — 
This pest of dulness holds its sway; 

A ghastly life without a sound ; 

To Peter's soul the spell is bound — 
How should it ever pass away ? 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS 



The Witch of Atlas was conceived during a 
solitary walk from the Baths of San Giuliano, 
near Pisa, to the top of Monte San Pellegrino, 
August 12, 1820, and was written August 14, 
15, and 16. It was sent to Oilier to be pub- 
lished with Shelley's name, but was first issued 
in Mrs. Shelley's edition of the Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. Her own note gives all our in- 
formation concerning it, except Shelley's char- 
acteristic sigh ' if its merit be measured by the 
labor which it cost, [it] is worth nothing.' 
Mrs. Shelley writes : 

' We spent the summer at the Baths of San 
Giuliano, four miles from Pisa. These baths 
were of great use to Shelley in soothing his 
nervous irritability. We made several excur- 
sions in the neighborhood. The country around 
is fertile, and diversified and rendered pictur- 
esque by ranges of near hills and more distant 
mountains. The peasantry are a handsome, 
intelligent race, and there was a gladsome 
sunny heaven spread over us, that rendered 
home and every scene we visited cheerful and 
bright. During some of the hottest days of 
August, Shelley made a solitary journey on 
foot to the summit of Monte San Pelegrino — 
a mountain of some height, on the top of which 



there is a chapel, the object, during certain 
days in the year, of many pilgrimages. The 
excursion delighted him while it lasted, though 
he exerted himself too much, and the effect was 
considerable lassitude and weakness on his re- 
turn. During the expedition he conceived the 
idea and wrote, in the three days immediately 
succeeding to his return, The Witch of Atlas. 
This poem is peculiarly characteristic of his 
tastes — wildly fanciful, full of brilliant ima- 
gery, and discarding human interest and pas- 
sion, to revel in the fantastic ideas that his 
imagination suggested. 

' The surpassing excellence of The Cenci had 
made me greatly desire that Shelley should in- 
crease his popularity, by adopting subjects that 
would more suit the popular taste than a poem 
conceived in the abstract and dreamy spirit of 
The Witch of Atlas. It was not only that I 
wished him to acquire popularity as redound- 
ing to his fame ; but I believed that he would 
obtain a greater mastery over his own powers, 
and greater happiness in his mind, if public 
applause crowned his endeavors. The few 
stanzas that precede the poem were addressed 
to me on my representing these ideas to him. 
Even now I believe that I was in the right 



272 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS 



Shelley did not expect sympathy and approba- 
tion from the public ; but the want of it took 
away a portion of the ardor that oug-ht to have 
sustained him while writing. He was thrown on 
his own resources and on the inspiration of his 
own soul, and wrote because his mind over- 
flowed, without the hope of being- appreciated. 
I had not the most distant wish that he should 
truckle in opinion, or submit his lofty aspira- 
tions for the human race to the low ambition 
and pride of the many, but I felt sure that if his 
poems were more addressed to the common 
feeling's of men, his proper rank among- the 
writers of the day would be acknowledged ; 
and that popularity as a poet would enable 
his countrymen to do justice to his character 
and virtues ; which, in those days, it was the 
mode to attack with the most flagitious calum- 
nies and insulting abuse. That he felt these 
things deeply cannot be doubted, though he 
armed himself with the consciousness of acting 
from a lofty and heroic sense of right. The 
truth burst from his heart sometimes in solitude, 
and he would write a few unfinished verses 
that showed that he felt the sting. . . . 

TO MARY 

ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING 
POEM UPON THE SCORE OF ITS CON- 
TAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST 



How, my dear Mary, are yoii critic-bitten 
(For vipers kill, though dead) by some 
review, 
That you condemn these verses I have 
written. 
Because they tell no story, false or 
true ! 
What, though no mice are caught by a 
young kitten. 
May it not leap and play as grown cats 
do. 
Till its claws come ? Prithee, for this one 

time. 
Content thee with a visionary rhyme. 

II 
What hand would crush the silken-wingM 

fly' . 

The youngest of inconstant April's min- 
ions, 
Because it cannot climb the purest sky. 
Where the swan sings, amid the sun's 
dominions ? 
Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to 
die, 



' I believed that all this morbid feeling 
would vanish, if the chord of sympathy be- 
tween him and his countrymen were touched. 
But my persuasions were vain ; the mind could 
not be bent from its natural inclination. 
Shelley shrunk instinctively from portraying 
human passion, with its mixture of good and 
evil, of disappointment and disquiet. Such 
opened again the wounds of his own heart, and 
he loved to shelter himself rather in the airiest 
flights of fancy, forgetting love and hate and 
regret and lost hope, in such imaginations as 
borrowed their hues from sunrise or sunset, 
from the yellow moonshine or paly twilight, 
from the aspect of the far ocean or the shadows 
of the woods ; which celebrated the singing of 
the winds among the pines, the flow of a mur- 
muring stream, and the thousand harmonious 
sounds which nature creates in her solitudes. 
These are the materials which form The Witch 
of Atlas ; it is a brilliant congregation of 
ideas, such as his senses gathered, and his 
fancy colored, during his rambles in the sunny 
land he so much loved.' 



When day shall hide within her twilight 
pinions 
The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, 
Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile. 

HI 

To thy fair feet a winged Vision came. 
Whose date should have been longer 
than a day. 
And o'er thy head did beat its wings for 
fame. 
And in thy sight its fading plumes dis- 
play; 
The watery bow burned in the evening 
flame, 
But the shower fell, the swift sun went 
his way — 
And that is dead. Oh, let me not believe 
That anything of mine is fit to live ! 

IV 

Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen 
years 
Considering and retouching Peter Bell; 
Watering his laurels with the killing 
tears 
Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to 
hell 
Might pierce, and their wide branches blot 
the spheres 
Of heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers; 
this well 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS 



273 



May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to 

foil 
The over-busy gardener's blundering toil. 



My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature 
As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful 
praise 
Clothes for our grandsons — but she 
matches Peter, 
Though he took nineteen years, and she 
three days, 
In dressing. Light the vest of flowing 
metre 
She wears; he, proud as dandy with his 
stays. 
Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress 
Like King Lear's ' looped and windowed 
raggedness.' 

VI 

If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow 
Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial cli- 
mate 
Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow: 

A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme 
at; 
In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello. 
If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor 
primate 
Can shrive you of that sin, — if sin there be 
In love, when it becomes idolatry. 



Before those cruel Twins, whom at one 
birth 
Incestuous Change bore to her father 
Time, 
Error and Truth, had hunted from tlie 
earth 
All those bright natures which adorned 
its prime, 
And left us nothing to believe in, worth 

The pains of putting into learned rhyme, 
A Lady-Witch there lived on Atlas' moun- 
tain 
Within a cavern by a secret fountain. 

II 

Her mother was one of the Atlantides ; 

The all-beholding Sun had ne'er beholden 
In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas 

So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden 
In the warm shadow of her loveliness; 



He kissed her with his beams, and made 
all golden 
The chamber of gray rock in which she lay; 
She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away. 

Ill 

'Tis said, she first was changed into a va- 
por. 
And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit, 
Like splendor-winged moths aJbout a taper, 
Round the red west when the sun dies 
in it; 
And then into a meteor, such as caper 

On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit; 
Then, into one of those mysterious stars 
Which hide themselves between the Earth 
and Mars. 

IV 

Ten times the Mother of the Months had 
bent 
Her bow beside the folding-star, and 
bidden 

With that bright sign the billows to in- 
dent 
The sea-deserted sand — like children 
chidden. 

At her command they ever came and weat — 
Since in that cave a dewy splendor hid- 
den 

Took shape and motion; with the living 
form 

Of this embodied Power the cave grew 
warm. 



A lovely lady garmented in light 

From her own beauty; deep her eyes as 
are 
Two openings of unfathomable night 

Seen through a temple's cloven roof; her 
hair 
Dark; the dim brain whirls dizzy with de- 
light, 
Picturing her form ; her soft smiles shone 
afar, 
And her low voice was heard like love, and 

drew 
All living things towards this wonder new. 

VI 

And first the spotted camelopard came. 

And then the wise and fearless elephant; 
Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame 



274 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS 



Of his own volumes inter vol ved. All 
gauut 
And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made 
tame ; 
They drank before her at her sacred 
fount; 
And every beast of beating heart grew bold, 
Such gentleness and power even to behold. 

VII 

The briuded lioness led forth her young, 
That she might teach them how they 
should forego 
Their inborn thirst of death; the pard un- 
strung 
His sinews at her feet, and sought to 
know, 
With looks whose motions spoke without a 
tongue. 
How he might be as gentle as the doe. 
The magic circle of her voice and eyes 
All savage natures did imparadise. 

VIII 

And old Silenus, shaking a green stick 
Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew 

Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick 
Cicadse are, drunk with the noonday dew; 

And Dryope and Faunus followed quick, 
Teasing the god to sing them something 
new; 

Till in this cave they found the Lady lone, 

Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone. 

IX 

And universal Pan, 'tis said, was there; 
And — though none saw him — through 
the adamant 
Of the deep mountains, through the track- 
less air 
And through those living spirits, like a 
want, 
He passed out of his everlasting lair 

Where the quick heart of the great 
world doth pant. 
And felt that wondrous Lady all alone, — 
And she felt him upon her emerald throne. 



And every nymph of stream and spreading 

tree. 
And every shepherdess of Ocean's flocks, 
, Who drives her white waves over the green 

sea. 



And Ocean, with the brine on his gray 
locks. 
And quaint Priapus with his company. 
All came, much wondering how the en- 
womb^d rocks 
Could have brought forth so beautiful a 

birth ; 
Her love subdued their wonder and their 
mirth. 

XI 

The herdsman and the mountain maidens 

came. 

And the rude kings of pastoral Garamant; 

Their spirits shook within them, as a flame 

Stirred by the air under a cavern gaunt; 

Pygmies, and Polyphemes,by many a name. 

Centaurs and Satyrs, and such shapes as 

haunt 

Wet clefts, and lumps neither alive nor 

dead. 
Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed. 

XII 

For she was beautiful; her beauty made 
The bright world dim, and everything 
beside 

Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade; 
No thought of living spirit could abide. 

Which to her looks had ever been betrayed, 
On any object in the world so wide. 

On any hope within the circling skies. 

But on her form, and in her inmost eyes. 

XIII 

Which when the Lady knew, she took her 
spindle 
And twined three threads of fleecy mist, 
and three 
Long lines of light, such as the dawn may 
kindle 
The clouds and waves and mountains 
with; and she 
As many star-beams, ere their lamps could 
dwindle 
In the belated moon, wound skilfully; 
And with these threads a subtle veil she 

wove — 
A shadow for the splendor of her love. 

XIV 

The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling 
Were stored with magic treasures — • 
sounds of air 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS 



275 



Which had the power all spirits of com- 
pelling, 
Folded in cells of crystal silence there ; 
Such as we hear in youth, and think the 
feeling 
Will never die — yet ere we are aware, 
The feeling and the sound are fled and 

gone, 
And the regret they leave remains alone. 

XV 

And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and 
quaint, 
Each in its thin sheath like a chrysalis; 
Some eager to burst forth, some weak and 
faint 
With the soft burden of intensest bliss 
It is its work to bear to many a saint 
Whose heart adores the shrine which 
holiest is. 
Even Love's ; and others white, green, gray, 

and black. 
And of all shapes — and each was at her 
beck. 

XVI 

And odors in a kind of aviary 

Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, 
Clipped in a floating net a love-sick Fairy 
Had woven from dew-beams while the 
moon yet slept; 
As bats at the wired window of a dairy. 
They beat their vans; and each was an 
adept. 
When loosed and missioned, making wings 

of winds. 
To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined 
minds. 

XVII 

And liquors clear and sweet, whose health- 
ful might 
Could medicine the sick soul to happy 
sleep, 
And change eternal death into a night 
Of glorious dreams — or, if eyes needs 
must weep, 
Could make their tears all wonder and de- 
light — 
She in her crystal vials did closely 
keep; 
If men could drink of those clear vials, 't is 

said, 
The living were not envied of the dead. 



XVIII 

Her cave was stored with scrolls of strange 
device, 
The works of some Saturnian Archi- 
mage. 
Which taught the expiations at whose price 
Men from the gods might win that happy 
age 
Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice ; 
And which might quench the earth-con- 
suming rage 
Of gold and blood, till men should live and 

move 
Harmonious as the sacred stars above; 

XIX 

And how all things that seem untamable, 

Not to be checked and not to be confined, 
Obey the spells of wisdom's wizard skill; 
Time, earth and fire, the ocean and the 
wind. 
And all their shapes, and man's imperial 
will; 
And other scrolls whose writings did un- 
bind 
The inmost lore of Love — let the profane 
Tremble to ask what secrets they contain. 

XX 

And wondrous works of substances un- 
known, 
To which the enchantment of her father's 
power 
Had changed those ragged blocks of savage 
stone. 
Were heaped in the recesses of her bower; 
Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which 
shone 
In their own golden beams — each like a 
flower 
Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his 

light 
Under a cypress in a starless night. 

XXI 

At first she lived alone in this wild home, 
And her own thoughts were each a min- 
ister, 
Clothing themselves or with the ocean-foam, 
Or with the wind, or with the speed of 
fire, 
To work whatever purposes might come 
Into her mind; such power her mighty 
Sire 



276 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS 



Had girt them with, whether to fly or run, 
Through all the regions which he shines 
upon. 

XXII 

The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades, 
Oreads and Naiads with long weedy locks, 

Offered to do her bidding through the seas, 
Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks, 

And far beneath the matted roots of trees, 
And in the gnarled heart of stubborn oaks. 

So they might live forever in the light 

Of her sweet presence — each a satellite. • 

XXIII 

' This may not be,' the Wizard Maid re- 
plied; 
' The fountains where the Naiades bedew 
Their shining hair, at length are drained 
and dried; 
The solid oaks forget their strength, and 
strew 
Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide ; 
The boundless ocean, like a drop of dew, 
Will be consumed — the stubborn centre 

must 
Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust; 

XXIV 

* And ye with them will perish one by one. 

If I must sigh to think that this shall be, 
If I must weep when the surviving Sun 

Shall smile on your decay, oh, ask not me 
To love you till your little race is run; 

I cannot die as ye must — over me 
Your leaves shall glance — the streams in 

which ye dwell 
Shall be my paths henceforth, and so — 
farewell ! ' 

XXV 

She spoke and wept; the dark and azure 
well 
Sparkled beneath the shower of her 
bright tears. 
And every little circlet where they fell 
Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant 
spheres 
And intertangled lines of light; a knell 
Of sobbing voices came upon her ears 
From those departing Forms, o'er the se- 
rene 
Of the white streams and of the forest 
green. 



XXVI 
All day the Wizard Lady sate aloof. 

Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity, 
Under the cavern's fountain-lighted roof; 

Or broidering the pictured poesy 
Of some high tale upon her growing woof, 

Which the sweet splendor of her smiles 
could dye 
In hues outshining Heaven — and ever she 
Added some grace to the wrought poesy. 

XXVII 

While on her hearth lay blazing many a 
piece 

Of sandal- wood, rare gums and cinnamon; 
Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is; 

Each flame of it is as a precious stone 
Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this 

Belongs to each and all who gaze upon; 
The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand 
She held a woof that dimmed the burning 
brand. 

XXVIII 

This Lady never slept, but lay in trance 

All night within the fountain, as in sleep. 
Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's 
glance; 
Through the green splendor of the water 
deep 
She saw the constellations reel and dance 
Like fire-flies, and withal did ever keep 
The tenor of her contemplations calm. 
With open eyes, closed feet, and folded 
palm. 

XXIX 

And when the whirlwinds and the clouds 
descended 

From the white pinnacles of that cold 
hill. 
She passed at dewfall to a space extended. 

Where, in a lawn of flowering asphodel 
Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended. 

There yawned an inextinguishable well 
Of crimson fire, full even to the brim, 
And overflowing all the margin trim; 

XXX 

Within the which she lay when the fierce 

war 
Of wintry winds shook that innocuous 

liquor 
In many a mimic moon and bejirded star, 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS 



277 



O'er woods and lawns; the serpent heard 

it flicker 

In sleep, and, dreaming still, he crept afar; 

And when the windless snow descended 

thicker 

Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it 

came 
Melt on the surface of the level flame. 

XXXI 

She had a boat which some say Vulcan 
wrought 

For Venus, as the chariot of her star; 
But it was found too feeble to be fraught 

With all the ardors in that sphere which 
are, 
And so she sold it, and Apollo bought 

And gave it to this daughter; from a car 
Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat 
Which ever upon mortal stream did float. 

XXXII 

And others say, that, when but three hours 
old. 
The first-born Love out of his cradle 
leapt. 
And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold, 

And like a horticultural adept. 
Stole a strange seed, and wrapped it up in 
mould, 
And sowed it in his mother's star, and 
kept 
Watering it all the summer with sweet 

dew, 
And with his wings fanning it as it grew. 

XXXIII 

The plant grew strong and green; the 
snowy flower 
Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit 
began 
To turn the light and dew by inward power 
To its own substance; woven tracery ran 
Of light firm texture, ribbed and branch- 
ing, o'er 
The solid rind, like a leaf's veined fan, 
Of which Love scooped this boat, and with 

soft motion 
Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean. 

XXXIV 

This boat she moored upon her fount, and 
lit 
A living spirit within all its frame. 
Breathing the soul of swiftness into it. 



Couched on the fountain, like a panther 
tame — 
One of the twain at Evan's feet that sit — 

Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift flame. 
Or on blind Homer's heart a winged 

thought, — 
In joyous expectation lay the boat. 

XXXV 

Then by strange art she kneaded fire and 
snow 

Together, tempering the repugnant mass 
With liquid love — all things together grow 

Through which the harmony of love can 
pass: 
And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow, 

A living Image, which did far surpass 
In beauty that bright shape of vital stone 
Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion. 

XXXVI 

A sexless thing it was, and in its growth 
It seemed to have developed no defect 

Of either sex, yet all the grace of both; 
In gentleness and strength its limbs were 
decked; 

The bosom lightly swelled with its full 
youth, 
The countenance was such as might select 

Some artist that his skill should never die, 

Imaging forth such perfect purity. 

XXXVII 

From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid 
wings, 

Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere, 
Tipped with the speed of liquid lightnings. 

Dyed in the ardors of the atmosphere. 
She led her creature to the boiling springs 

Where the light boat was moored, and 
said, ' Sit here ! ' 
And pointed to the prow and took her seat 
Beside the rudder with opposing feet. 

XXXVIII 

And down the streams which clove those 
mountains vast. 

Around their inland islets, and amid 
The panther-peopled forests, whose shade 
cast 

Darkness and odors, and a pleasure hid 
In melancholy gloom, the pinnace passed; 

By many a star-surrounded pyramid 
Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky. 
And caverns yawning round unfathomably 



278 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS 



XXXIX 

The silver noon into that winding dell, 
With slanted gleam athwart the forest 
tops, 
Tempered like golden evening, feebly 
fell; 
A green and glowing light, like that 
which drops 
From folded lilies in which glow-worms 
dwell. 
When earth over her face night's mantle 
wraps ; 
Between the severed mountains lay on 

high, 
Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. 

XL 

And ever as she went, the Image lay 

With folded wings and unawakened eyes; 
And o'er its gentle countenance did play 
The busy dreams, as thick as summer 
flies.. 
Chasing the rapid smiles that would not 
stay. 
And drinking the warm tears, and the 
sweet sighs 
Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain. 
They had aroused from that full heart and 
brain. 

XLI 

And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud 
Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went; 
Now lingering on the pools, in which abode 
The calm and darkness of the deep con- 
tent 
In which they paused; now o'er the shallow 
road 
Of white and dancing waters, all besprent 
With sand and polished pebbles: mortal 

boat 
In such a shallow rapid could not float. 

XLII 

And down the earthquaking cataracts, 
which shiver 

Their snow-like waters into golden air. 
Or under chasms unfathomable ever 

Sepulchre them, till in their rage they 
tear 
A subterranean portal for the river, 

It fled — the circling sunbows did upbear 
Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray. 
Lighting it far upon its lampless way. 



XLIII 

And when the Wizard Lady would ascend 
The labyrinths of some many-winding 
vale. 
Which to the inmost mountain upward 
tend. 
She called ' Hermaphroditus ! ' and the 
pale 
And heavy hue which slumber could extend 

Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale 
A rapid shadow from a slope of grass, 
Into the darkness of the stream did pass. 

XLIV 

And it unfurled its heaven-colored pinions, 
With stars of fire spotting the stream 
below, 
And from above into the Sun's dominions 

Flinging a glory, like the golden glow 
In which Spring clothes her emerald-wingM 
minions. 
All interwoven with fine feathery snow 
And moonlight splendor of intensest rime 
With which frost paints the pines in winter 
time ; 

XLV 

And then it winnowed the Elysian air, 

Which ever hung about that lady bright, 
With its ethereal vans; and speeding 
there. 
Like a star up the torrent of the night, 
Or a swift eagle in the morning glare 
Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous 
flight, 
The pinnace, oared by those enchanted 

wings. 
Clove the fierce streams towards their up- 
per springs. 

XLVI 

The water flashed, like sunlight by the prow 
Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to 
Heaven; 
The still air seemed as if its waves did 
flow 
In tempest down the mountains; loosely 
driven 
The lady's radiant hair streamed to and 
fro; 
Beneath, the billows, having vainly 
striven 
Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel 
The swift and steady motion of the keel. 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS 



279 



XLVII 

Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, 
Or in the noon of interlunar night, 

The Lady-Witch in visions could not chain 
Her spirit; but sailed forth under the 
light 

Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain 
Its storm-outspeeding wings the Herma- 
phrodite ; 

She to the Austral waters took her way, 

Beyond the fabulous Thamandocaua, 

XLVIII 

Where, like a meadow which no scythe has 
shaven, 
Which rain could never bend, or whirl- 
blast shake, 
With the Antarctic constellations paven, 
Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral 
lake; 
There she would build herself a windless 
haven 
Out of the clouds whose moving turrets 
make 
The bastions of the storm, when through 

the sky 
The spirits of the tempest thundered by; 

XLIX 

A haven, beneath whose translucent floor 
The tremulous stars sparkled unfathom- 
ably. 

And around which the solid vapors hoar, 
Based on the level waters, to the sky 

Lifted their dreadful crags, and, like a 
shore 
Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly 

Hemmed in, with rifts and precipices gray 

And hanging crags, many a cove and bay. 



And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash 
Of the wind's scourge foamed like a 
wounded thing, 
And the incessant hail with stony clash 
Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging 
wing 
Of the roused cormorant in the lightning 
flash 
Looked like the wreck of some wind- 
wandering 
Fragment of inky thunder-smoke — this 

haven 
Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven; 



LI 

On which that Lady played her many 
pranks, 
Circling the image of a shooting star, 
Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks 

Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest 
are. 
In her light boat; and many quips and 
cranks 
She played upon the water; till the car 
Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan, 
To journey from the misty east began. 

LII 

And then she called out of the hollow tur- 
rets 
Of those high clouds, white, golden and 
vermilion. 
The armies of her ministering spirits; 

In mighty legions, million after million. 
They came, each troop emblazoning its 
merits 
On meteor flags; and many a proud pa^ 
vilion 
Of the intertexture of the atmosphere 
They pitched upon the plain of the calm 
mere. 

LIII 

They framed the imperial tent of their 
great Queen 

Of woven exhalations, underlaid 
With lambent lightning-fire, as may be seen 

A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid 
With crimson silk; cressets from the serene 

Hung there, and on the water for her 
tread 
A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn. 
Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon, 

LIV 

And on a throne o'erlaid with starlight, 
caught 
Upon those wandering isles of aery dew 
Which highest shoals of mountain ship- 
wreck not, 
She sate, and heard all that had hap- 
pened new 
Between the earth and moon since they 
had brought 
The last intelligence; and now she grew 
Pale as that moon lost in the watery night. 
And now she wept, and now she laughed 
outright. 



2»0 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS 



LV 

These were tame pleasures. She would 
often climb 
The steepest ladder of the crudded rack 
Up to some beaked cape of cloud sublime, 

Aud like Arion on the dolphin's back 
Ride singing through the shoreless air; 
oft-time 
Following the serpent lightning's winding 
track, 
She ran upon the platforms of the wind, 
And laughed to hear the fire-balls roar be- 
hind. 

LVI 

Aud sometimes t© those streams of upper 

air, 
Which whirl the earth in its diurnal 

round. 
She would ascend, and win the spirits 

there 
To let her join their chorus. Mortals 

found 
That on those days the sky was calm and 

fair, 
And mystic snatches of harmonious sound 
Wandered upon the earth where'er she 

passed. 
And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to 

last. 

LVII 

But her choice sport was, in the hours of 
sleep, 
To glide adown old Nilus, where he 
threads 
Egypt and Ethiopia, from the steep 

Of utmost Axume, until he spreads, 
Like a calm flock of silver-fleeced sheep, 
His waters on the plain, — and crested 
heads 
Of cities and proud temples gleam amid, 
And many a vapor-belted pyramid; 

LVIII 

By Mceris and the Mareotid lakes, 

Strewn with faint blooms, like bridal- 
chamber floors. 
Where naked boys bridling tame water- 
snakes. 
Or charioteering ghastly alligators. 
Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes 
Of those huge forms — within the brazen 
doors 



Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and 

beast 
Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast; 

LIX 

And where within the surface of the river 

The shadows of the massy temples lie, 
And never are erased — but tremble ever 
Like things which every cloud can doom 
to die; 
Through lotus-paven canals, and whereso- 
ever 
The works of man pierced that serenest 
sky 
With tombs, and towers, and fanes, — 't was 

her delight 
To wander in the shadow of the night. 

LX 

With motion like the spirit of that wind 
Whose soft step deepens slumber, her 
light feet 
Passed through the peopled haunts of hu- 
mankind. 
Scattering sweet visions from her pre- 
sence sweet; 
Through fane and palace-court and laby- 
rinth mined 
With many a dark and subterranean 
street 
Under the Nile, through chambers high and 

deep 
She passed, observing mortals in their sleep. 

LXI 

A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to see 
Mortals subdued in all the shapes of 
sleep. 
Here lay two sister-twins in infancy; 

There a lone youth who in his dreams 
did weep; 
Within, two lovers linked innocently 

In their loose locks which over both did 
creep 
Like ivy from one stem; and there lay calm 
Old age with snow-bright hair and folded 
palm. 

LXII 

But other troubled forms of sleep she saw, 
Not to be mirrored in a holy song; 

Distortions foul of supernatural awe, 
And pale imaginings of visioned wrong. 

And all the code of custom's lawless law 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS 



281 



Written upon the brows of old and young; 
*This,* said the Wizard Maiden, * is the 

strife 
Which stirs the liquid surface of man's life.' 

LXIII 

And little did the sight disturb her soul. 

We, the weak mariners of that wide lake, 
Where'er its shores extend or billows roll, 

Our course unpiloted and starless make 
O'er its wild surface to an unknown goal; 

But she in the calm depths her way could 
take 
Where in bright bowers immortal forms 

abide, 
Beneath the weltering of the restless tide. 

LXIV 

And she saw princes couched under the 
glow 
Of sun-like gems; and round each tem- 
ple-court 
In dormitories ranged, row after row. 

She saw the priests asleep, all of one sort. 
For all were educated to be so. 

The peasants in their huts, and in the 
port 
The sailors she saw cradled on the waves. 
And the dead lulled within their dreamless 



graves. 



LXV 



And all the forms in which those spirits lay 

Were to her sight like the diaphanous 
Veils in which those sweet ladies oft array 
Their delicate limbs, who would conceal 
from us 
Only their scorn of all concealment; they 
Move in the light of their own beauty 
thus. 
But these and all now lay with sleep upon 

them. 
And little thought a Witch was looking on 
them. 

LXVI 

She all those human figures breathing there 

Beheld as living spirits; to her eyes 
The naked beauty of the soul lay bare; 
And often through a rude and worn dis- 
guise 
She saw the inner form most bright and 
fair; 
And then she had a charm of strange 
device, 



Which, murmured on mute lips with tender 

tone. 
Could make that spirit mingle with her 

own. 

LXVII 

Alas, Aurora ! what wouldst thou have 
given 
For such a charm, when Tithon became 
gray ? 
Or how much, Venus, of thy silver Heaven 
Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proser- 
pina 
Had half (oh ! why not all ?) the debt for- 
given 
Which dear Adonis had been doomed to 

pay, 

To any witch who would have taught you 

it? 
The Heliad doth not know its value yet. 

LXVIII 

'T is said in after times her spirit free 
Knew what love was, and felt itself 
alone; 
But holy Dian could not chaster be 

Before she stooped to kiss Endymion, 
Than now this lady — like a sexless bee 

Tasting all blossoms and confined to none; 
Among those mortal forms the Wizard- 
Maiden 
Passed with an eye serene and heart un- 
laden. 

LXIX 

To those she saw most beautiful, she gave 

Strange panacea in a crystal bowl; 
They drank in their deep sleep of that 
sweet wave. 
And lived thenceforward as if some con- 
trol. 
Mightier than life, were in them; and the 
grave 
Of such, when death oppressed the weary 
soul, 
Was as a green and over-arching bower 
Lit by the gems of many a starry flower. 

LXX 
For on the night when they were buried, 
she 
Restored the embalmers' ruining and 
shook 
The light out of the funeral lamps, to be 
A mimic day within that deathy nook; 



282 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS 



And she unwound the woven imagery 
Of second childhood's swaddling bands, 
and took 
The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche, 
And threw it with contempt into a ditch, 

LXXI 

And there the body lay, age after age. 
Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and 
undecaying. 
Like one asleep in a green hermitage. 
With gentle smiles about its eyelids 
playing, 
And living in its dreams beyond the rage 
Of death or life, while they were still 
arraying 
In liveries ever new the rapid, blind. 
And fleeting generations of mankind. 

LXXII 

And she would write strange dreams upon 
the brain 
Of those who were less beautiful, and 
make 
All harsh and crooked purposes more vain 
Than in the desert is the serpent's wake 
Which the sand covers; all his evil gain 
The miser in such dreams would rise and 
shake 
Into a beggar's lap; the lying scribe 
Would his own lies betray without a bribe. 

LXXIII 

The priests would write an explanation 
full, 
Translating hieroglyphics into Greek, 
How the god Apis really was a bull, 

And nothing more; and bid the herald 
stick 
The same against the temple doors, and 
pull 
The old cant down; they licensed all to 
speak 
Whate'er they thought of hawks, and cats, 

and geese, 
By pastoral letters to each diocese. 

LXXIV 

The king would dress an ape up in his 
crown 
And robes, and seat him on his glorious 
seat, 
.^nd on the right hand of the sun-like throne 
Would place a gaudy uiock-bird to re- 
peat 



The chatterings of the monkey. Every 

one 
Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss 

the feet 
Of their great emperor when the morning 

came. 
And kissed — alas, how many kiss the 

same ! 

LXXV 

The soldiers dreamed that they were black- 
smiths, and 
Walked out of quarters in somnambu- 
lism; 
Round the red anvils you might see them 
stand, 
Like Cyclopses in Vulcan's sooty abysm. 
Beating their swords to ploughshares; in a 
band 
The gaolers sent those of the liberal 
schism 
Free through the streets of Memphis, — 

much, I wis, 
To the annoyance of king Amasis. 

LXXVI 

And timid lovers who had been so coy 
They hardly knew whether they loved or 
not, 
Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet 

To the fulfilment of their inmost thought; 

And when next day the maiden and the 

boy 

Met one another, both, like sinners 

caught, 

Blushed at the thing which each believed 

was done 
Only in fancy — till the tenth moon shone; 

LXXVII 

And then the Witch would let them take 
no ill; 
Of many thousand schemes which lovers 
find 
The Witch found one, — and so they took 
their fill 
Of happiness in marriage warm and 
kind. 
Friends who, by practice of some envious 
skill, 
Were torn apart — a wide wound, mind 
from mind — 
She did unite again with visions clear 
Of deep affection and of truth sincere. 



lEDIPUS TYRANNUS OR SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT 283 



LXXVIII 

These were the pranks she played among 

the cities 
Of mortal men, and what she did to 

sprites 
And Gods, entangling them in her sweet 

ditties 



To do her will, and show their subtle 
slights, 
I will declare another time; for it is 

A tale more fit for the weird winter 



nights 



Than for these garish summer days, when 



we 



Scarcely believe much more than we can see. 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS OR SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT 

A TRAGEDY 
IN TWO ACTS 



TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL DORIC 



Choose Reform or Civil War, 



When through thy streets, instead of hare with dogs, 
A Consort-Queen shall hunt a King with hogs, 
Riding on the IONIAN MINOTAUR. 



(Edipus Tyrannus, a piece of drollery like 
Peter Bell, was begun, under the circumstances 
described in Mrs. Shelley's Note, August 24, 
1819, at the Baths of San Giuliano, near Pisa. 
It was sent to Horace Smith, who had it pub- 
lished as a pamphlet without Shelley's name. 
It was threatened with prosecution by citizens 
of the ward, and some steps thereto seem to 
have been taken ; but at the sug-gestion of 
Alderman Rothwell the publisher gave up the 
whole edition, except seven copies, which had 
been sold, and also told the name of his em- 
ployer. The secret of the authorship was kept 
by Horace Smith, who said only that the work 
had been sent to him from Pisa. The drama 
was suggested by the affair of Queen Caroline. 
Of the characters Purganax stands for Lord 
Castlereagh, Dakry for Lord Eldon, and Laoc- 
tonos for the Duke of Wellington. Mrs. Shel- 
ley's Note completes the history of the poem : 

' In the brief journal I kept in those days, I 
find recorded in August [24], 1820, "Shelley 
begins Swellfoot the Tyrant, suggested by the 
pigs at the fair of San Giuliano." This was 
the period of Queen Caroline's landing in Eng- 
land, and the struggles made by George IV. 
to get rid of her claims ; which failing, Lord 
Castlereagh placed the " Green Bag" on the 
table of the House of Commons, demanding, 
in the King's name, that an inquiry should be 
instituted into his wife's conduct. These cir- 
cumstances were the theme of all conversation 
among the English. We were then at the 
Baths of San Giuliano ; a friend [Mrs. Mason] 



came to visit us on the day when a fair was 
held in the square, beneath our windows. 
Shelley read to us his Ode to Liberty ; and was 
riotously accompanied by the grunting of a 
quantity of pigs brought for sale to the fair. 
He compared it to the " chorus of frogs " in 
the satiric drama of Aristophanes ; and it being 
an hour of merriment, and one ludicrous asso- 
ciation suggesting another, he imagined a polit- 
ical satirical drama on the circumstances of the 
day, to which the pigs would serve as chorus 
— and Swellfoot was begun. When finished, 
.°t was transmitted to England, printed and 
published anonymously ; but stifled at the very 
dawn of its existence by the ' ' Society for the 
Suppression of Vice," who threatened to pro- 
secute it, if not immediately withdrawn. The 
friend who had taken the trouble of bringing 
it out, of course did not think it worth the 
annoyance and expense of a contest, and it was 
laid aside. 

' Hesitation of whether it would do honor to 
Shelley prevented my publishing it at first ; 
but I cannot bring myself to keep back any- 
thing he ever wrote, for each word is fraught 
with the peculiar views and sentiments which 
he believed to be beneficial to the human race, 
and the bright light of poetry irradiates every 
thought. The world has a right to the entire 
compositions of such a man ; for it does not 
live and thrive by the outworn lesson of the 
dullard or the hypocrite, but by the original 
free thoughts of men of genius, who aspire to 
pluck bright truth 



284 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS 



ACT I : SC. I. 



' " from the pale-faced moon; 
Or dive into the bottom of the deep, 
Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, 
And pluck up drowned " 

truth. Even those who may dissent from his 
opinions will consider that he was a man of 
genius, and that the world will take more 
interest in his slightest word, than from the 
waters of Lethe, which are so eagerly pre- 
scribed as niedicinal for all its wrongs and woes. 
This drama, however, must not be judged for 
more than was meant. It is a mere plaything 
of the imagination, which even may not excite 
smiles among many, who will not see wit in 
those combinations of thought which were full 
of the ridiculous to the author. But, like 
everything he wrote, it breathes that deep 
sympathy for the sorrows of humanity, and 
indignation against its oppressors, which make 
it worthy of his name.' 



ADVERTISEMENT 

This Tragedy is one of a triad or system of 
three Plays (an arrangement according to which 
the Greeks were accustomed to connect their 



dramatic representations) elucidating the won- 
derful and appalling fortunes of the Swellfoot 
dynasty. It was evidently written by some 
learned Thehan ; and, from its characteristic 
dulness, apparently before the duties on the 
importation of Attic salt had been repealed by 
the Boeotarchs. The tenderness with which 
he treats the Pigs proves him to have been a 
sus Bceotice ; possibly Epicuri de grege porcus ; 
for, as the poet observes, 

' A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind.' 

No liberty has been taken with the trans- 
lation of this remarkable piece of antiquity 
except the suppressing a seditious and blas- 
phemous Chorus of the Pigs and Bulls at the 
last act. The word Hoydipouse (or more 
properly (Edipus), has been rendered literally 
JSwellfoot without its having been conceived 
necessary to determine whether a swelling of 
the hind or the fore feet of the Swinish mon- 
arch is particularly indicated. 

Should the remaining portions of this Tra- 
gedy be found, entitled Swellfoot in Angaria and 
Charite, the Translator might be tempted to 
give them to the reading Public. 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Tyrant Swellfoot, King 

of Thebes. 
loNA Taurina, his 

Queen. 
Mammon, Arch-Priest of 

Famine. 



purganax 

L»akry 

Laoctonos 



Wizards, 

Ministers 

of SWELL- 

J foot. 



The Gadfly. 

The Leech. 

The Rat. 

The MiNOTAWR. 

Moses, the Sow-gelder. 

Solomon, the Porkman. 

Zephaniah, Pig-butcher. 



Chorus of the Swinish Multitude. 
Guards, Attendants, Priests, etc., etc. 

Scene. Thebes. 

ACT I 

Scene — A magnificent Temple, built of thigh- 
hones and death's-heads, and tiled ivith scalps. 
Over the Altar the statue of Famine, veiled ; 
a number of boars, sows and sucking-pigs, 
crowned with thistle, shamrock and oak, sitting 
on the steps and clinging round the Altar of 
the Temple. 

Enter Swellfoot, in his royal robes, without 
perceiving the Pigs. 

SWELLFOOT 

Chou supreme goddess ! by whose power 
divine 



These graceful limbs are clothed in proud 
array 
[He contemplates himself with satisfaction. 
Of gold and purple, and this kingly paunch 
Swells like a sail before a favoring breeze, 
And these most sacred nether promontories 
Lie satisfied with layers of fat; and these 
Boeotian cheeks, like Egypt's pyramid, 
(Nor with less toil were their foundations 

laid) 
Sustain the cone of my untroubled brain, 
That point, the emblem of a pointless 
nothing ! 10 

Thou to whom Kings and laurelled Em- 
perors, 
Radical-butchers, Paper-money-millers, 
Bishops and deacons, and the entire army 
Of those fat martyrs to the persecution 
Of stifling turtle-soup and brandy-devils, 
Offer their secret vows ! thou plenteous 

Ceres 
Of their Eleusis, hail ! 

SWINE 

Eigh ! eigh ! eigh ! eigh ! 

SWELLFOOT 

Ha ! what are ye, 
Who, crowned with leaves devoted to the 

Furies, 
Cling round this sacred shrine ? 



ACT I 



OR, SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT 



285 



SWINE 

Aigh ! aigh ! aigh ! 

SWELIiFOOT 

What ! ye that are 
The very beasts that, offered at her altar 20 
With blood and groans, salt-cake, and fat, 

and inwards. 
Ever propitiate her reluctant will 
When taxes are withheld ? 



SWINE 

Ugh ! ugh ! 



ugh ! 



SWELLFOOT 

What ! ye who grub 
With filthy snouts my red potatoes up 
In Allan's rushy bog ? who eat the oats 
Up, from my cavalry in the Hebrides ? 
Who swill the hog-wash soup my cooks 

digest 
From bones, and rags, and scraps of shoe- 
leather, 
Which should be given to cleaner Pigs 
than you ? 

SEMICHORUS I OF SWINE 

The same, alas ! the same; 30 

Though only now the name 
Of Pig remains to me. 

SEMICHORUS n OF SWINE 

If 't were your kingly will 
Us wretched Swine to kill, 

What should we yield to thee ? 

SWELLFOOT 

Why, skin and bones, and some few hairs 
for mortar. 

CHOKUS OF SWINE 

I have heard your Laureate sing 
That pity was a royal thing; 
Under your mighty ancestors we Pigs 
Were blessed as nightingales on myrtle 
sprigs 40 

Or grasshoppers that live on noonday 

dew. 
And sung, old annals tell, as sweetly too; 
But now our sties are fallen in, we catch 
The murrain and the mange, the scab 
and itch; 
Sometimes your royal dogs tear down our 
thatch. 
And then we seek the shelter of a ditch; 



Hog-wash or grains, or rutabaga, none 
Has yet been ours since your reign begun. 

FIRST sow 
My Pigs, 't is in vain to tug. 

SECOND sow 
I could almost eat my litter. 50 

FIRST PIG 

I suck, but no milk will come from the 
dug. 

SECOND PIG 

Our skin aud our bones would be bit- 
ter. 

BOARS 

We fight for this rag of greasy rug, 

Though a trough of wash would be fit- 
ter. 

SEMICHORUS 

Happier Swine were they than we, 

Drowned in the Gadarean sea ! 

I wish that pity would drive out the devils 

Which in your royal bosom hold their 
revels. 

And sink us in the waves of thy compas- 
sion ! 

Alas, the Pigs are an unhappy nation ! 60 

Now if your Majesty would have our bris- 
tles 
To bind your mortar with, or fill our 
colons 

With rich blood, or make brawn out of our 
gristles. 
In policy — ask else your royal Solons — 

You ought to give us hog-wash and clean 
straw. 

And sties well thatched ; besides, it is the 
law ! 

SWELLFOOT 

This is sedition, and rank blasphemy ! 
Ho ! there, my guards ! 

Enter a Guard 

GUARD 

Your sacred Majesty 

SWELLFOOT 

Call in the Jews, Solomon the court Pork 
man. 



286 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS 



ACT I 



Moses the Sow-gelder, and Zephaniah 70 
The Hog-butcher. 

GUARD 

They are in waiting, Sire. 
Enter Solomon, Moses, and Zephaniah 

SWELLFOOT 

Out with your knife, old Moses, and spay 

those Sows 

[TAe Pigs run about in consternation. 
That load the earth with Pigs; cut close 

and deep. 
Moral restraint I see has no effect. 
Nor prostitution, nor our own example. 
Starvation, typhus-fever, war, nor prison. 
This was the art which the arch-priest of 

Famine 
Hinted at in his charge to the Theban 

clergy. 
Cut close and deep, good Moses. 

MOSES 

Let your Majesty 
Keep the Boars quiet, else — 

SWELLFOOT 

Zephaniah, cut 80 
That fat Hog's throat, the brute seems 

overfed ; 
Seditious hunks ! to whine for want of 

grains ! 

ZEPHANIAH 

Your sacred Majesty, he has the dropsy. 
We shall find pints of hydatids in 's liver; 
He has not half an inch of wholesome fat 
Upon his carious ribs — 

SWELLFOOT 

'Tis all the same. 

He '11 serve instead of riot-money, when 

Our murmuring troops bivouac in Thebes' 
streets ; 

And January winds, after a day 

Of butchering, will make them relish car- 
rion. 90 

Now, Solomon, I '11 sell you in a lump 

The whole kit of them. 

SOLOMON 

Why, your Majesty, 
1 could not give — 



SWELLFOOT 

Kill them out of the way — 
That shall be price enough; and let me 

hear 
Their everlasting grunts and whines no 
more ! 

[JExeunt, driving in the Swine. 

Enter Mammon, the Arch-Priest ; and PuR- 
GANAX, Chief of the Council of Wizards 

PURGANAX 

The future looks as black as death ; a cloud, 

Dark as the frown of Hell, hangs over it. 

The troops grow mutinous, the revenue 
fails. 

There 's something rotten in us; for the 
level 99 

Of the state slopes, its very bases topple; 

The boldest turn their backs upon them- 
selves ! 

MAMMON 

Why, what 's the matter, my dear fellow, 

now? 
Do the troops mutiny ? — decimate some 

regiments. 
Does money fail ? — come to my mint — 

coin paper. 
Till gold be at a discount, and, ashamed 
To show his bilious face, go purge himself, 
In emulation of her vestal whiteness. 

PURGANAX 

Oh, would that this were all ! The ora- 
cle ! ! 

MAMMON 

Why it was I who spoke that oracle, 100 
And whether I was dead-drunk or inspired 
I cannot well remember; nor, in truth, 
The oracle itself ! 

PURGANAX 

The words went thusr 
' Bceotia, choose reform or civil war. 
When through thy streets, instead of hare 

with dogs, 
A Consort-Queen shall hunt a King with 

hogs. 
Riding on the Ionian Minotaur.' 

MAMMON 

Now if the oracle had ne'er foretold 
This sad alternative, it must arrive. 



ACT I 



OR, SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT 



287 



Or not, and so it must now that it has; 
And whether I was urged by grace divine 
Or Lesbian liquor to declare these words, 
Which must, as all words must, be false 

or true, 122 

It matters not; for the same power made 

all, 
Oracle, wine, and me and you — or none — 
'Tis the same thing. If you knew as much 
Of oracles as I do — 

PURGAITAX 

You arch-priests 
Believe in nothing; if you were to dream 
Of a particular number in the lottery. 
You would not buy the ticket ! 

MAMMON 

Yet our tickets 
Are seldom blanks. But what steps have 

you taken ? 130 

For prophecies, when once they get abroad, 
Like liars who tell the truth to serve their 

ends, 
Or hypocrites, who, from assuming virtue, 
Do the same actions that the virtuous do. 
Contrive their own fulfilment. This lona — 
Well — you know what the chaste Pasiphae 

did. 
Wife to that most religious King of Crete, 
And still how popular the tale is here; 
And these dull Swine of Thebes boast their 

descent 
From the free Minotaur. You know they 

still 140 

Call themselves Bulls, though thus degen- 
erate ; 
And everything relating to a Bull 
Is popular and respectable in Thebes; 
Their arms are seven Bulls in a field gules; 
They think their strength consists in eating 

beef; 
Now there were danger in the precedent 
If Queen lona — 

PURGANAX 

I have taken good care 
That shall not be. I struck the crust o' 

the earth 
With this enchanted rod, and Hell lay 

bare ! 
And from a cavern full of ugly shapes, 150 
I chose a Leech, a Gradfly, and a Rat. 
The gadfly was the same which Juno sent 
To agitate Ic^, and which Ezekiel mentions 



That the Lord whistled for out of the 

mountains 
Of utmost -3^thiopia to torment 
Mesopotamian Babylon. The beast 
Has a loud trumpet like the Scarabee; 
His crooked tail is barbed with many 

stings, 
Each able to make a thousand wounds, and 

each 
Immedicable; from his convex eyes i6c 

He sees fair things in many hideous shapes, 
And trumpets all his falsehood to the 

world. 
Like other beetles he is fed on dung; 
He has eleven feet with which he crawls, 
Trailing a blistering slime; and this foul 

beast 
Has tracked lona from the Thebau limits, 
From isle to isle, from city unto city. 
Urging her flight from the far Chersonese 
To fabulous Solyma and the -^tnean Isle, 
Ortygia, Melite, and Calypso's Rock, 170 
And the swart tribes of Garamant and Fez, 
^olia and Elysium, and thy shores, 
Parthenope, which now, alas ! are free ! 
And through the fortunate Saturnian land 
Into the darkness of the West. 

MAMMON 

But if 
This Gadfly should drive lona hither ? 

PURGANAX 

Gods ! what an if! but there is my graj 

Rat, 
So thin with want he can crawl in and out 
Of any narrow chink and filthy hole, 17c 
And he shall creep into her dressing-room. 
And — 

MAMMON 

My dear friend, where are your wits V 
as if 
She does not always toast a piece of cheese. 
And bait the trap ? and rats, when lean 

enough 
To crawl through such chinks — 

PURGANAX 

But my Leech — a leecl 
Fit to suck blood, with lubricous round 

rings. 
Capaciously expatiative, which make 
His little body like a red balloon, 
As full of blood as that of hydrogen^ 



288 



(EDIPUS TYRANNUS 



ACT 1 



Sucked flora men's hearts; insatiably he 

sucks 
And clings and pulls — a horse-leech whose 

deep maw 190 

The plethoric King Swellfoot could not 

fill, 
And who, till full, will cling forever. 



MAMMON 



This 



For Queen lona might suffice, and less; 
But 't is the Swinisli multitude I fear, 
And in that fear I have — 

PURGANAX 

Done what ? 

MAMMON 

Disinherited 
My eldest son Chrysaor, because he 
Attended public meetings, and would al- 
ways 
Stand prating there of commerce, public 

faith, 
Economy, and unadulterate coin, 
And other topics, ultra-radical; 200 

And have entailed my estate, called the 

Fool's Paradise, 
And funds in fairy-money, bonds, and bills. 
Upon my accomplished daughter Bankno- 

tina. 
And married her to the Gallows. 



PUBGANAX 



A good match ! 



MAMMON 

A high connection, Purganax. The bride- 
groom 
Is of a very ancient family, 
Of Hounslow Heath, Tyburn, and the New 

Drop, 
And has great influence in both Houses. 

Oh, 
He makes the fondest husband; nay, too 

fond — 
New married people should not kiss in 

public; 210 

But the poor souls love one another so ! 
And then my little grandchildren, the 

Gibbets, 
Promising children as you ever saw, — 
The young playing at hanging, the elder 

learning 



How to hold radicals. They are well 

taught too, 
For every Gibbet says its catechism. 
And reads a select chapter in the Bible 
Before it goes to play. 

{A most tremendous humming is heard) 

PURGANAX 

Ha ! what do I hear ? 
Enter the Gadfly 

MAMMON 

Your Gadfly, as it seems, is tired of gad- 
ding. 

GADFLY 

Hum, hum, hum ! 220 

From the lakes of the Alps and the cold 
gray scalps 

Of the mountains, I come ! 

Hum, hum, hum ! 
From Morocco and Fez, and the high 
palaces 

Of golden Byzantium; 
From the temples divine of old Palestine, 

From Athens and Rome, 

With a ha ! and a hum ! 

I come, I come ! 



230 



All inn-doors and windows 

Were open to me; 
I saw all that sin does, 
Which lamps hardly see 
That burn in the night by the curtained 

bed — 
The impudent lamps ! for they blushed not 
red. 
Dinging and singing. 
From slumber I rung her, 
Loud as the clank of an ironmon- 
ger; 
Hum, hum, hum I 

Far, far, far, 240 

With the trump of my lips and the sting 
at my hips, 
I drove her — afar ! 
Far, far, far. 
From city to city, abandoned of pity, 

A ship without needle or star; 
Homeless she passed, like a cloud on the 
blast, 
Seeking peace, finding war; 
She is here in her car. 



ACT I 



OR, SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT 



289 



From afar, and afar. 
Hum, hum ! 



250 



I have stung her and wrung her ! 

The venom is working; 
And if you had hung her 
With canting and quirking, 
She could not be deader than she will be 

soon ; 
I have driven her close to you, under the 
moon, 
Night and day, hum, hum, ha ! 
I have hummed her and drummed her 
From place to place, till at last I have 
dumbed her, 
Hum, hum, hum ! 260 

Enter the Leech and the Rat 

LEECH 

I will suck 

Blood or muck ! 
The disease of the state is a plethory, 
Who so fit to reduce it as I ? 

RAT 

I '11 slyly seize and 
Let blood from her weasand, — 
Creeping through crevice, and chink, and 

cranny. 
With my snaky tail, and my sides so 
scranny. 

PURGANAX 

Aroint ye, thou unprofitable worm : 

{To the Leech) 
And thou, dull beetle, get thee back to 
hell, 270 

(To the Gadfly) 
To sting the ghosts of Babylonian kings. 
And the ox-headed lo. 

SWINE {within) 

Ugh, ugh, ugh ! 
Hail, lona the divine ! 
We will be no longer Swine, 
But Bulls with horns and dewlaps. 



RAT 



For, 



You know, my lord, the Minotaur — 

PURGANAX (fiercely) 
Be silent ! get to hell ! or I will call 



The cat out of the kitchen. Well, Lord 

Mammon, 
This is a pretty business ! 

[Exit the Rat. 

MAMMON 

I will go 
And spell some scheme to make it ugly 
then. 280 

\_Exxt. 
Enter Swellfoot 

SWELLFOOT 

She is returned ! Taurina is in Thebes 
When Swellfoot wishes that she were in 

hell ! 
O Hymen ! clothed in yellow jealousy 
And waving o'er the couch of wedded 

kings 
The torch of Discord with its fiery hair — 
This is thy work, thou patron saint of 



queens 



Swellfoot is wived ! though parted by the 

sea. 
The very name of wife had conjugal rights; 
Her cursed image ate, drank, slept with 

me, 
And in the arms of Adiposa oft 290 

Her memory has received a husband's — 

{A loud tumult, and cries of ' Iona forever ! 
— No Swellfoot ! ') 

SWELLFOOT 

Hark! 
How the Swine cry Iona Taurina ! 
I suffer the real presence. Purganax, 
Off with her head ! 

PURGANAX 

But I must first impanel 
A jury of the Pigs, 

SWELLFOOT 

Pack them then. 

PURGANAX 

Or fattening some few in two separate sties. 
And giving them clean straw, tying some 

bits 
Of ribbon round their legs — giving their 

Sows 
Some tawdry lace and bits of bistre glass, 
And their young Boars white and red rags, 

and tails 300 



290 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS 



ACT J 



Of cows, and jay feathers, and sticking 

cauliflowers 
Between the ears of the old ones ; and when 
They are persuaded that, by the inherent 

virtue 
Of these things, they are all imperial Pigs, 
Good Lord ! they 'd rip each other's bellies 

up, 
Not to say help us in destroying her. 

SWELLFOOT 

This plan might be tried too. Where 's 

General 
Laoctonos ? 

Enter Laoctonos 
It is my royal pleasure 
That you, Lord General, bring the head 

and body. 
If separate it would please me better, 

hither 
Of Queen lona. 



310 



LAOCTONOS 

That pleasure I well knew. 
And made a charge with those battalions 

bold. 
Called, from their dress and grin, the 

Royal Apes, 
Upon the Swine, who in a hollow square 
Enclosed her, and received the first attack 
Like so many rhinoceroses, and then 
Retreating in good order, with bare tusks 
And wrinkled snouts presented to the foe. 
Bore her in triumph to the public sty. 
What is still worse, some Sows upon the 

ground 320 

Have given the Ape-guards apples, nuts 

and gin. 
And they all whisk their tails aloft, and 

cry, 
* Long live lona ! down with Swellfoot ! ' 



PURGANAX 



Hark. 



THE SWINE (without) 

Long live lona ! down with Swellfoot ! 



Enter Dakry 

DAKRY 



Went to the garret of the Swineherd's 
tower, 



Which overlooks the sty, and made a long 
Harangue (all words) to the assembled 

Swine, 
Of delicacy, mercy, judgment, law, 
Morals, and precedents, and purity, 
Adultery, destitution, and divorce, 330 

Piety, faith, and state necessity. 
And how I loved the Queen ! — and then 

I wept 
With the pathos of my own eloquence. 
And every tear turned to a millstone 

which 
Brained many a gaping Pig, and there was 

made 
A slough of blood and brains upon the 

place. 
Greased with the pounded bacon; round 

and round 
The millstones rolled, ploughing the pave- 
ment up. 
And hurling sucking Pigs into the air, 
With dust and stones. 

Enter Mammon 

MAMMON 

I wonder that gray wizards 
Like you should be so beardless in their 
schemes; 341 

It had been but a point of policy 
To keep lona and the Swine apart. 
Divide and rule ! but ye have made a junc- 
tion 
Between two parties who will govern you, 
But for my art. — Behold this Bag ! it is 
The poison Bag of that Green Spider huge, 
On which our spies skulked in ovation 

through 
The streets of Thebes, when they were 
paved with dead: 349 

A bane so much the deadlier fills it now 
As calumny is worse than death; for here 
The Gadfly's venom, fifty times distilled, 
Is mingled with the vomit of the Leech, 
In due proportion, and black ratsbane, 

which 
That very Rat, who, like the Pontic ty- 
rant. 
Nurtures himself on poison, dare not touch. 
All is sealed up with the broad seal of 

Fraud, 
Who is the Devil's Lord High Chancellor, 
And over it the Primate of all Hell 
Murmured this pious baptism: — * Be thou 
called 360 



ACT II : SC. I 



OR, SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT 



291 



The Green Bag; and this power and grace 

be thine: 
That thy contents, on whomsoever poured. 
Turn innocence to guilt, and gentlest looks 
To savage, foul, and fierce deformity; 
Let all baptized by thy infernal dew 
Be called adulterer, drunkard, liar, wretch ! 
No name left out which orthodoxy loves. 
Court Journal or legitimate Review ! 
Be they called tyrant, beast, fool, glutton, 

lover 
Of other wives and husbands than their 

own — 370 

The heaviest sin on this side of the Alps ! 
Wither they to a ghastly caricature 
Of what was human ! — let not man or 

beast 
Behold their face with unaverted eyes. 
Or hear their names with ears that tingle 

not 
With blood of indignation, rage, and 

shame ! ' 
This is a perilous liquor, good my Lords. 
[SwELLFOOT approaches to touch the Green Bag. 
Beware ! for God's sake, beware ! — if you 

should break 
The seal, and touch the fatal liquor — 

PUKGANAX 

There, 
Give it to me. I have been used to handle 
All sorts of poisons. His dread Majesty 
Only desires to see the color of it. 382 

MAMMON 

Now, with a little common sense, my 

Lords, 
Only undoing all that has been done, 
(Yet so as it may seem we but confirm it) 
Our victory is assured. We must entice 
Her Majesty from the sty, and make the 

Pigs 
Believe that the contents of the Green 

Bag 
Are the true test of guilt or innocence; 
And that, if she be guilty, 't will transform 

her 390 

To manifest deformity like guilt; 
If innocent, she will become transfigured 
Into an angel, such as they say she is; 
And they will see her flying through the 

air. 
So bright that she will dim the noonday 

sun. 



Showering down blessings in the shape of 

comfits. 
This, trust a priest, is just the sort of 

thing 
Swine will believe. I '11 wager you will 

see them 
Climbing upon the thatch of their low sties. 
With pieces of smoked glass, to watch her 

sail 400 

Among the clouds, and some will hold the 

flaps 
Of one another's ears between their teeth. 
To catch the coming hail of comfits in. 
You, Purganax, who have the gift o' the 

gab. 
Make them a solemn speech to this effect. 
I go to put in readiness the feast 
Kept to the honor of our goddess Famine, 
Where, for more glory, let the ceremony 
Take place of the uglification of the Queen. 

DAKRY {to SWELLFOOt) 

I, as the keeper of your sacred conscience. 
Humbly remind your Majesty that the 
care 411 

Of your high office, as Man-milliner 
Te red Bellona, should not be deferred. 

PURGANAX 

All part, in happier plight to meet again. 

\_Exeunt. 



ACT II 

Scene I.- The Public Sty. The Boars in full 
Assembly. 

Enter Purganax 

PURGANAX 

Grant me your patience, Gentlemen and 

Boars, 
Ye, by whose patience under public bur- 
dens 
The glorious constitution of these sties 
Subsists, and shall subsist. The Lean-Pig 

rates 
Grow with the growing populace of Swine; 
The taxes, that true source of Piggishness, 
(How can I find a more appropriate term 
To include religion, morals, peace and 

plenty, 
And all that fit Boeotiaas a nation 
To teach the other nations how to live ?) 10 



292 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS 



ACT II: sc. t 



Increase with Piggishness itself; and still 
Does the revenue, that great spring of all 
The patronage, and pensions, and by-pay- 
ments, 
Which free-born Pigs regard with jealous 

eyes, 
Diminish, till at length, by glorious steps. 
All the land's produce will be merged in 

taxes, 
And the revenue will amount to no- 
thing ! 
The failure of a foreign market for 
Sausages, bristles, and blood-puddings, 
And such home manufactures, is but par- 
tial ; 20 
And, that the population of the Pigs, 
Instead of hog-wash, has been fed on straw 
And water, is a fact which is — you 

know — 
That is — it is a state necessity — 
Temporary, of course. Those impious 

Pigs, 
Who, by frequent squeaks, have dared im- 
pugn 
The settled Swellfoot system, or to make 
Irreverent mockery of the genuflexions 
Inculcated by the arch-priest, have been 

whipped 
Into a loyal and an orthodox whine. 30 

Things being in this happy state, the Queen 

lona 

(A loud cry from the Pigs) 

She is innocent, most innocent ! 

PURGANAX 

That is the very thing that I was saying. 
Gentlemen Swine; the Queen lona being 
Most innocent, no doubt, returns to Thebes, 
And the lean Sows and Boars collect about 

her, 
Wishing to make her think that we believe 
(I mean those more substantial Pigs who 

swill 
Rich hog-wash, while the others mouth 

damp straw) 
That she is guilty; thus, the Lean-Pig fac- 
tion 40 
Seeks to obtain that hog-wash, which has 

been 
Your immemorial right, and which I will 
Maintain you in to the last drop of — 



A BOAR {interrupting him) 
Does any one accuse her of ? 



What 



PURGANAX 

Why, no one 
Makes any positive accusation; but 
There were hints dropped, and so the privy 

wizards 
Conceived that it became them to advise 
His Majesty to investigate their truth; 
Not for his own sake; he could be content 
To let his wife play any pranks she pleased. 
If, by that sufferance, he could please the 

Pigs; 51 

But then he fears the morals of the Swine, 
The Sows especially, and what effect 
It might produce upon the purity and 
Religion of the rising generation 
Of sucking Pigs, if it could be suspected 
That Queen lona — 

(A pause) 

FIRST BOAR 

Well, go on; we long 
To hear what she can possibly have done. 

PURGANAX 

Why, it is hinted, that a certain Bull — 
Thus much is known : — the milk-white 
Bulls that feed 60 

Beside Clitumnus and the crystal lakes 
Of the Cisalpine mountains, in fresh dews 
Of lotus-grass and blossoming asphodel 
Sleeking their silken hair, and with sweet 

breath 
Loading the morning winds until they 

faint 
With living fragrance, are so beautiful ! 
Well, /say nothing; but Europa rode 
On such a one from Asia into Crete, 
And the enamoured sea grew calm be- 
neath 
His gliding beauty. And Pasiphae, 70 

lona's grandmother, but she is inno- 
cent ! 
And that both you and I, and all assert. 



Most innocent ! 



FIRST BOAR 
PURGANAX 

Behold this Bag; a Bag — 



SECOND BOAR 

Oh ! no Green Bags ! ! Jealousy's eyes 

are green, 
Scorpions are green, and water-snakes, 

and efts, 
And verdigris, and — 



ACT II : SC. I 



OR, SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT 



293 



PURGAKAX 

Honorable Swine, 
In Piggish souls can prepossessions reign ? 
Allow me to remind you, grass is green — 
All flesh is grass ; no bacon but is flesh — 
Ye are but bacon. This divining Bag 80 
(Which is not green, but only bacon color) 
Is filled with liquor, which if sprinkled o'er 
A woman guilty of — we all know what — 
Makes her so hideous, till she finds one 

blind 
She never can commit the like again; 
If innocent, she will turn into an angel 
And rain down blessings in the shape of 

comfits 
As she flies up to heaven. Now, my pro- 
posal 
Is to convert her sacred Majesty 89 

Into an angel (as I am sure we shall do) 
By pouring on her head this mystic water. 

[Showing the Bag. 
I know that she is innocent ; I wish 
Only to prove her so to all the world. 

FIRST BOAR 

Excellent, just, and noble Purganax ! 

SECOND BOAR 

How glorious it will be to see her Majesty 
Flying above our heads, her petticoats 
Streaming like — like — like — 

THIRD BOAR 

Anything. 

PUKGANAX 

Oh, no ! 
But like a standard of an admiral's ship, 
Or like the banner of a conquering host, 
Or like a cloud dyed in the dying day, 100 
Unravelled on the blast from a white 

mountain ; 
Or like a meteor, or a war-steed's mane, 
Or waterfall from a dizzy precipice 
Scattered upon the wind. 

FIRST BOAR 

Or a cow's tail, — 

SECOND BOAR 

Or anything, as the learned Boar observed. 

PURGANAX 

Gentlemen Boars, I move a resolution, 
That her most sacred Majesty should be 



Invited to attend the feast of Famine, 
And to receive upon her chaste white 

body 
Dews of apotheosis from this Bag. no 

[A great confusion is heard, of the Pigs out oj 
Doors, which communicates itself to those 
within. During the first strophe, the doors 
of the sty are staved in, and a number of ex- 
ceedingly lean Pigs and Sows and Boarsf 
rush in. 

SEMICHORUS I 

No! Yes! 

SEMICHORUS n 

Yes! No! 

SEMICHORUS I 

A law I 

SEMICHORUS II 

A flaw! 

SEMICHORUS I 

Porkers, we shall lose our wash, 

Or must share it with the Lean-Pigs ! 

FIRST BOAR 

Order ! order ! be not rash ! 

Was there ever such a scene. Pigs ! 

AN OLD sow (rushing in) 
I never saw so fine a dash 
Since I first began to wean Pigs. la; 

SECOND BOAR (solemnly) 
The Queen will be an angel time enough. 
I vote, in form of an amendment, that 
Purganax rub a little of that stuff 
Upon his face — 

PURGANAX (his heart is seen to beat through his 
waistcoat) 

Gods ! What would ye be at ? 

SEMICHORUS I 

Purganax has plainly shown a 
Cloven foot and jackdaw feather. 

SEMICHORUS II 

I vote Swellfoot and lona 
Try the magic test together; 
Whenever royal spouses bicker. 
Both should try the magic liquor. 131 



294 



CEDIPUS TYRANNUS 



ACT II : SC. I 



AN OLD BOAR (aside) 
A miserable state is that of Pigs, 
For if their drivers would tear caps and 
wigs, 
The Swiue must bite each other's ear there- 
for. 

AN OLD SOW (aside) 
A wretched lot Jove has assigned to 

Swine, 
Squabbling makes Pig-herds hungry, and 
they dine 
On bacon, and whip sucking Pigs the more. 

CHORUS 

Hog- wash has been ta'en away; 
If the Bull-Queen is divested. 
We shall be in every way. 

Hunted, stripped, exposed, molested ; 
Let us do whate'er we may, 141 

That she shall not be arrested. 
Queen, we entrench you with walls of 
brawn, 
And palisades of tusks, sharp as a bayo- 
net. 
Place your most Sacred Person here. We 
pawn 
Our lives that none a finger dare to lay 
on it. 
Those who wrong you, wrong us; 
Those who hate you, hate us; 
Those who sting you, sting us; 
Those who bait you, bait us ; 150 

The oracle is now about to be 
Fulfilled by circumvolving destiny, 
Which says : ' Thebes, choose reform or 
civil war, 
When through your streets, instead of 

hare with dogs, 
A Consort-Queen shall hunt a King with 
hogs. 
Riding upon the Ionian Minotaur.' 

Enter loNA Taurina 

lONA taurina {coming forward) 
Gentlemen Swine, and gentle Lady-Pigs, 
The tender heart of every Boar acquits 
Their Queen of any act incongruous 159 
With native Piggishness, and she reposing 
With confidence upon the grunting nation. 
Has thrown herself, her cause, her life, her 

all. 
Her innocence, into their Hoggish arms; 
lioT has the expectation been deceived 



Of finding shelter there. Yet know, great 
Boars, 

(For such whoever lives among you finds 
you. 

And so do I) the innocent are proud ! 

I have accepted your protection only 

In compliment of your kind love and care, 

Not for necessity. The innocent 170 

Are safest there where trials and dangers 
wait; 

Innocent queens o'er white-hot plough- 
shares tread 

Unsinged; and ladies, Erin's laureate sings 
it, 

Decked with rare gems, and beauty rarer 
still. 

Walked from Killarney to the Giant's 
Causeway 

Through rebels, smugglers, troops of yeo- 
manry. 

White-boys, and Orange-boys, and consta- 
bles, 

Tithe-proctors, and excise people, unin- 
jured ! 

Thus I ! — 

Lord Purganax, I do commit myself 180 

Into your custody, and am prepared 

To stand the test, whatever it may be ! 

purganax 
This magnanimity in your sacred Majesty 
Must please the Pigs. You cannot fail of 

being 
A heavenly angel. Smoke your bits of 

glass, 
Ye loyal Swine, or her transfiguration 
Will blind your wondering eyes. 

an old boar (aside) 

Take care, my Lord, 
They do not smoke you first. 

PURGANAX 

At the approaching feast 
Of Famine let the expiation be. 

SWINE 

Content content ! 

lONA TAURINA [aside) 

I, most content of all, 19c 
Know that my foes even thus prepare their 
fall! 

[Exeunt omnes 



ACT II : sc. II OR SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT 



295 



Scene II. — The interior of the Uemplc of Favi- 
ine. The statue of the Goddess, a skeleton 
clothed in party-colored rags, seated upon a 
heap of skulls and loaves inter mingled r A 
number of exceedingly fat Priests in black gar- 
ments arrayed on each side, with marrow-bones 
and cleavers in their hands. A flourish of 
trumpets. 

Enter Mammon as Arch-priest, Swellfoot, 
Dakry, Purganax, Laoctonos, followed 
by Iona Taurina guarded. On the other 
side enter the Swine. 

CHORUS OF PRIESTS (accompanied by the Court 
Porkman on marrow-bones and cleavers) 

Goddess bare, and gaunt, and pale. 
Empress of the world, all hail ! 
What though Cretans old called thee 
City-crested Cybele ? 
We call thee Famine ! 
Goddess of fasts and feasts, starving and 

cramming; 
Through thee, for emperors, kings and 

priests and lords, 
Who rule by viziers, sceptres, bank-notes, 
words, 
The earth pours forth its plenteous fruits, 
Corn, wool, linen, flesh, and roots. lo 

Those who consume these fruits through 
thee grow fat. 
Those who produce these fruits through 
thee grow lean. 
Whatever change takes place, oh, stick to 
that. 
And let things be as they have ever 

been; 
At least while we remain thy priests, 
And proclaim thy fasts and feasts ! 
Through thee the sacred Swellfoot dynasty 
Is based upon a rock amid that sea 
Whose waves are Swine — so let it ever be ! 

[Swellfoot, etc., seat themselves at a table, 
magnificently covered, at the upper end of the 
temple. Attendants pass over the stage with 
hog-ivash in pails. A number of Pigs, ex- 
ceedingly lean, follow them, licking up the 
wash. 

mammon 
X fear your sacred Majesty has lost 20 

The appetite which you were used to have. 
Allow me now to recommend this dish — 
A simple kickshaw by your Persian cook. 
Such as is served at the great King's second 
table. 



The price and pains which its ingredients 

cost 
Might have maintained some dozen families 
A winter or two — not more — so plain a 

dish 
Could scarcely disagree. 

SWELLFOOT 

After the trial. 
And these fastidious Pigfi are gone, perhaps 
I mr.y recover my lost appetite. 30 

I feel the gout flying about my stomacL; 
Give me a glass of Maraschino punch. 

purganax {filling his glass, and standing up) 
The glorious constitution of the Pigs ! 

all 
A toast ! a toast ! stand up, and three 
times three ! 

DAKRY 

No heel-taps — darken day-lights ! 

LAOCTONOS 

Claret, somehow, 
Puts me in mind of blood, and blood of 
claret ! 

SWELLFOOT 

Laoctonos is fishing for a compliment; 
But 't is his due. Yes, you have drunk 

more wine. 
And shed more blood, than any man in 

Thebes. 

{To Purganax) 
For God's sake stop the grunting of those 
Pigs ! 40 

PURGANAX 

We dare not, Sire! 'tis Famine's privi- 



lesre. 



CHORUS OF SWINE 



Hail to thee, hail to thee. Famine ! 

Thy throne is on blood, and thy robe is 
of rags; 
Thou devil which livest on damning; 

Saint of new churches and cant, and 
Green Bags; 
Till in pity and terror thou risest. 
Confounding the schemes of the wisest; 
When thou liftest thy skeleton form, 
When the loaves and the skulls roll 
about, 



296 



(EDIPUS TYRANNUS 



ACT II : SC. II 



We will greet thee — the voice of a storm 
Would be lost iu our terrible shout ! 51 

Then hail to thee, hail to thee, Famine ! 

Hail to thee. Empress of Earth ! 
When thou risest, dividing possessions, 
When thou risest, uprooting oppressions, 

In the pride of thy ghastly mirth; 
Over palaces, temples, and graves 

We will rush as thy minister-slaves. 

Trampling behind in thy train, 

Till all be made level again ! 60 

MAMMON 

I hear a crackling of the giant bones 

Of the dread image, and in the black pits 

Which once were eyes, I see two livid 

flames. 
These prodigies are oracular, and show 
The presence of the unseen Deity. 
Mighty events are hastening to their doom ! 

SWELLFOOT 

I only hear the lean and mutinous Swine 
Grunting about the temple. 



DAKKY 



In a crisis 



Of such exceeding delicacy, I think 69 

We ought to put her Majesty, the Queen, 
Upon her trial without delay. 



MAMMON 



Is here. 



The Bag 



PURGANAX 

I have rehearsed the entire scene 
With an ox-bladder and some ditch-water. 

On Lady P ; it cannot fail. 

[Talcing up the Bag. 
Your Majesty 

{To Swellfoot) 
In such a filthy business had better 
Stand on one side, lest it shotild sprinkle you. 
A spot or two on me would do no harm; 
Nay, it might hide the blood, which the sad 

genius 
Of the Green Isle has fixed, as by a spell, 
Upon my brow — which would stain all its 

seas, 80 

But which those seas could never wash 

away ! 



lONA TAURINA 

My Lord, I am ready — nay, I am impa- 
tient. 
To undergo the test. 

\_A graceful figure in a semi-transparent veil 
passes unnoticed through the Temple ; the word 
Liberty is seen through the veil, as if it were 
written in fire upon its forehead. Its words 
are almost drowned in the furious grunting of 
the Pigs, and the business of the trial. She 
kneels on the steps of the Altar, and sj^eaks in 
tones at first faint and low, but which ever be- 
come louder and louder. 

LIBERTY 

Mighty Empress, Death's white wife, 

Ghastly mother-in-law of life ! 

By the God who made thee such, 

By the magic of thy touch. 

By the starving and the cramming 
Of fasts and feasts ! — by thy dread self, 

O Famine ! 
I charge thee, when thou wake the multi- 
tude, 90 
Thou lead them not upon the paths of 

blood. 
The earth did never mean her foison 
For those who crown life's cup with poison 
Of fanatic rage and meaningless revenge; 

But for those radiant spirits, who are 
still 
The standard-bearers in the van of Change 

Be they th' appointed stewards, to fill 
The lap of Pain, and Toil, and Age ! 
Remit, O Queen ! thy accustomed rage ! 
Be what thou art not ! In voice faint and 

low 100 

Freedom calls Famine, her eternal foe. 
To brief alliance, hollow truce. — Rise 
now ! 

[ Whilst the veiled figure has been chanting the 
strophe. Mammon, Dakry, Laoctonos, and 
Swellfoot have surrounded Iona Taurina, 
who, with her hands folded on her breast and 
her eyes lifted to Heaven, stands, as with 
saint-like resignation, to wait the issue of the 
business in perfect confidence of her innocence. 

PuRGANAx, after unsealing the Green Bag, is 
gravely about to pour the liquor upon her head, 
when suddenly the whole expression of her 
figure and countenance changes ; she snatches 
it from his hand with a loud laugh of triumph, 
and empties it over Swellfoot and his whole 
Court, who are instantly changed into a number 



EPIPSYCHIDION 



297 



of Jilthy and ugly animals, and rush out of the 
Temple. The image of Famine then arises 
with a tremendous sound, the Pigs begin scram- 
bling for the loaves, and are tripped up by the 
skulls ; all those who eat the loaves are turned 
into Bulls, and arrange themselves quietly be- 
hind the altar. The image of Famine sinks 
through a chasm in the earth, and a Minotaur 
rises. 

MINOTAUR 

I am the Ionian Minotaur, the mightiest 

Of all Europa's taurine progeny; 

I am the old traditional Man-Bull; 

And from my ancestors having been Ionian 

I am called Ion, which, by interpretation. 

Is John; in plain Theban, that is to say. 

My name 's John Bull; I am a famous 

hunter, 
And can leap any gate in all Bceotia, no 
Even the palings of the royal park 
Or double ditch about the new enclosures; 
And if your Majesty will deign to mount 

me, 
At least till you have hunted down your 

game, 
I will not throw you. 

lONA TAURINA 

[During this speech she has been putting on boots 
and spurs and a hunting-cap, buckishly cocked 
on one side; and, tucking up her hair, she 
leaps nimbly on his back. 

Hoa, hoa ! tally-ho ! tally-hc ! ho ! ho ! 
Come, let us hunt these ugly badgers down, 



These stinking foxes, these devouring 

otters, 
These hares, these wolves, these anything 

but men. 
Hey, for a whipper-in ! my loyal Pigs, 120 
Now let your noses be as keen as beagles', 
Your steps as swift as greyhounds', and 

your cries 
More dulcet and symphonious than the 

bells 
Of village-towers, on sunshine holiday; 
Wake all the dewy woods with jangling 

music. 
Give them no law (are they not beasts of 

blood ?) 
But such as they gave you. Tally-ho ! ho ! 
Through forest, furze and bog, and den and 

desert. 
Pursue the ugly beasts ! Tally-ho ! ho ! 

FULL CHORUS OF lONA AND THE SWINE 

Tally-ho ! tally-ho ! 130 

Through rain, hail, and snow. 
Through brake, gorse, and briar, 
Through fen, flood, and mire, 

We go, we go ! 

Tally-ho ! tally-ho ! 
Through pond, ditch, and slough, 
Wind them, and find them. 
Like the Devil behind them ! 

Tall}' -ho, tally-ho ! 

[Exeunt, in full cry ; loNA driviny on 
the Swine, with the empty Green Bag. 



EPIPSYCHIDION 

VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE AND UNFORTUNATE LADY 

EMILIA V 



NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT OF 



L' anima amante si slancia fuori del creato, e si crea nell' infinite un mondo tiitto per essa, diverse assai da questo 
oscuro e pauroso baratro. 

Her own words. 



The noble and unfortunate lady, Emilia 

V , who inspired Epipsychidion Avas Teresa 

Emilia Viviani, eldest daughter of Count Vivi- 
ani, a nobleman of Pisa. She had been placed 
by her family in the neighboring' Convent of 
St. Anna, and there Shelley met her at the be- 



ginning- of December, 1820, and interested 
himself in her fortunes. The episode, which 
is too long for narration in a note, is best de- 
scribed in Mrs. Marshall's Life of Mary Woll- 
stonecraft Shelley. Its personal incidents are 
unimportant, since they do not enter into the 



298 



EPIPSYCHIDION 



substance of the poem, which is ' an idealized 
history ' of Shelley's spirit. The lady, to 
whom the verses are addressed, soon lost the 
enchantment which Shelley's imagination and 
sympathy had woven about her, and she 
ceased to interest him except as an object of 
compassion. 

Shelley was fully aware of the mystical 
nature of the poem, which shows the most 
spiritual elements of his genius at their point 
of highest intensity of passion. He wrote to 
Gisborne : ' The Epipsychidion is a mystery ; 
as to real flesh and blood, you know that I do 
not deal in those articles ; you might as well 
go to a gin-shop for a leg of mutton, as ex- 
pect anything human or earthly from me ; ' and 
again, ' The Epipsychidion I cannot look at ; 
the person whom it celebrates was a cloud in- 
stead of a Juno, and poor Ixion starts from the 
centaur that was the offspring of his own em- 
brace. If you are curious, however, to hear 
what I am and have been, it will tell you 
something thereof. It is an idealized history 
of my life and feelings. I think one is always 
in love with something or other; the error, 
and I confess it is not easy for spirits cased in 
flesh and blood to avoid it, consists in seeking 
in a mortal image the likeness of what is, per- 
haps, eternal.' 

In sending it for publication to Oilier, he 
says : ' I send you . . . and a longer piece, 
entitled Epipsychidion. . . . The longer poem, 
I desire, should not be considered as my own ; 
indeed, in a certain sense, it is a production of 
a portion of me already dead ; and in this 
sense the advertisement is no fiction. It is to 
be published simply for the esoteric few ; and 
I make its author a secret, to avoid the malig- 
nity of those who turn sweet food into poison, 
transforming all they touch into the corruption 
of their own natures. My wish with respect 
to it is that it should be printed immediately 
in the simplest form, and merely one hundred 
copies : those who are capable of judging and 
feeling rightly with respect to a composition 
of so abstruse a nature, certainly do not arrive 
at that number — among those, at least, who 
would ever be excited to read an obscure and 
anonymous production ; and it would give me 
no pleasure that the vulgar should read it. If 
you have any book-selling reason against pub- 
lishing so small a number as a hundred, merely, 
distribute copies among those to whom you 
think the poetry would afford any pleasure. 

Sweet Spirit ! sister of that orphan one, 
Whose empire is the name thou weepest 

on, 
In my heart's temple I suspend to thee 
These votive wreaths of withered memory. 



and send me, as soon as you can, a copy by the 
post.' 

The poem was composed at Pisa during the 
first weeks of 1821, and an edition of one hun- 
dred copies was published at London the fol- 
lowing summer. The title means, as Dr. Stop- 
ford Brooke points out, ' this soul out of my 
soul.' 



ADVERTISEMENT 

The writer of the following lines died at 
Florence, as he was preparing for a voyage to 
one of the wildest of the Sporades, which he 
had bought and where he had fitted up tht 
ruins of an old building, and where it was his 
hope to have realized a scheme of life, suited 
perhaps to that happier and better world of 
which he is now an inhabitant, but hardly 
practicable in this. His life was singular ; less 
on account of the romantic vicissitudes which 
diversified it than the ideal tinge which it re- 
ceived from his own character and feelings. 
The present Poem, like the Vita Nuova of 
Dante, is sufficiently intelligible to a certain 
class of readers without a matter-of-fact his- 
tory of the circumstances to which it relates ; 
and to a certain other class it must ever remain 
incomprehensible from a defect of a common 
organ of perception for the ideas of which it 
treats. Not but that, gran vergogna sarebbe a 
colui, che rimasse cosa sotto veste di Jigura di 
colore rettorico : e domandato non sapesse denu- 
dare le sue parole da cotal veste, in guisa che 
avessero verace intendimento. 

The present poem appears to have been in- 
tended by the writer as the dedication to some 
longer one. The stanza on the opposite page 
[below] is almost a literal translation from 
Dante's famous Canzone 

Voi, ch'' intend end 0, il terzo del movete, etc. 
The presumptuous application of the conclud- 
ing lines to his own composition will raise a 
smile at the expense of my unfortunate friend : 
be it a smile not of contempt, but pity. 

My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few 
Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning, 
Of such hard matter dost thou entertain ; 
Whence, if by misadventure chance should bring 
Thee to base company (as chance may do) 
Quite unaware of what thou dost contain, 
I prithee, comfort thy sweet self again. 
My last delight ! tell them that they are dull, 
And bid them own that thou art beautiful. 

Poor captive bird ! who from thy narrow 
cage 
Pourest such music that it might assuage 
The rugged hearts of those who prisoned 
thee, 



EPIPSYCHIDION 



299 



Were they not deaf to all sweet melody, — 
This song shall be thy rose; its petals pale 
Are dead, indeed, my adored nightingale ! 
But soft and fragrant is the faded blos- 
som, 
And it has no thorn left to wound thy 
bosom. 12 

High, spirit-winged Heart ! who dost 
forever 

Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain en- 
deavor. 

Till those bright plumes of thought, in 
which arrayed 

It over-soared this low and worldly shade, 

Lie shattered; and thy panting wounded 
breast 

Stains with dear blood its unmaternal nest ! 

I weep vain tears; blood would less bitter 
be. 

Yet poured forth gladlier, could it profit 
thee. 20 

Seraph of Heaven ! too gentle to be 
human. 

Veiling beneath that radiant form of Wo- 
man 

All that is insupportable in thee 

Of light, and love, and immortality ! 

Sweet Benediction in the eternal Curse ! 

Veiled glory of this lampless Universe ! 

Thou Moon beyond the clouds ! thou living 
Form 

Among the Dead ! thou Star above the 
Storm ! 

Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou 
Terror ! 

Thou Harmony of Nature's art ! thou Mir- 
ror 30 

In whom, as in the splendor of the Sun, 

All shapes look glorious which thou gazest 
on ! 

Ay, even the dim words which obscure thee 
now 

Flash, lightning-like, with unaccustomed 
glow; 

I pray thee that thou blot from this sad 
song 

All of its much mortality and wrong. 

With those clear drops, which start like 
sacred dew 

From the twin lights thy sweet soul dark- 
ens through, 

Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy — 

Then smile on it, so that it may not die. 40 



I never thought before my death to see 
Youth's vision thus made perfect. Emily, 
I love thee; though the world by no thin 

name 
Will hide that love from its unvalued 

shame. 
Would we two had been twins of the same 

mother ! 
Or that the name my heart lent to another 
Could be a sister's bond for her and thee, 
Blending two beams of one eternity ! 
Yet were one lawful and the other true, 
These names, though dear, could paint not, 

as is due, 50 

How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me ! 
I am not thine — I am a part of thee. 

Sweet Lamp ! my moth-like Muse has 
burned its wings ; 

Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings, 

Young Love should teach Time, in his own 
gray style, 

All that thou art. Art thou not void of 
guile, 

A lovely soul formed to be blessed and 
biess ? 

A well of sealed and secret happiness. 

Whose waters like blithe light and music 
are, 

Vanquishing dissonance and gloom ? a 
star 60 

Which moves not in the moving Heavens, 
alone ? 

A smile amid dark frowns ? a gentle tone 

Amid rude voices ? a beloved light ? 

A solitude, a refuge, a delight ? 

A lute, which those whom love has taught to 
play 

Make music on, to soothe the roughest day 

And lull fond grief asleep ? a buried trea- 
sure ? 

A cradle of young thoughts of wingless 
pleasure ? 

A violet-shrouded grave of woe ? — I mea- 
sure 

The world of fancies, seeking one like thee, 

And find — alas ! mine own infirmity. 71 

She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough 

way. 
And lured me towards sweet death; as 

Night by Day, 
Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift 

Hope, 
Led into light, life, peace. An antelope, 



300 



EPIPSYCHIDION 



In the suspended impulse of its lightness, 
Were less ethereally light; the brightness 
Of her divinest presence trembles through 
Her limbs, as underneath a cloud of dew 79 
Embodied in the windless heaven of June, 
Amid the splendor-winged stars, the Moon 
Burns, inextinguishably beautiful; 
And from her lips, as from a hyacinth full 
Of honey-dew, a liquid murmur drops. 
Killing the sense with passion, sweet as 

stops 
Of planetary music heard in trance. 
In her mild lights the starry spirits dance. 
The sunbeams of those wells which ever 

leap 
Under the lightnings of the soul — too 

deep 
For the brief fathom-line of thought or 

sense. 90 

The glory of her being, issuing thence, 
Stains the dead, blank, cold air with a warm 

shade 
Of unentangled intermixture, made 
By Love, of light and motion; one intense 
Diffusion, one serene Omnipresence, 
Whose flowing outlines mingle in their 

flowing, 
Around her cheeks and utmost fingers glow- 

With the unintermitted blood, which there 
Quivers (as in a fleece of snow-like air 
The crimson pulse of living morning 

quiver) 100 

Continuously prolonged, and ending never 
Till they are lost, and in that Beauty furled 
Which penetrates, and clasps and fills the 

world ; 
Scarce visible from extreme loveliness. 
Warm fragrance seems to fall from her 

light dress, 
And her loose hair; and where some heavy 

tress 
The air of her own speed has disentwined. 
The sweetness seems to satiate the faint 

wind ; 
And in the soul a wild odor is felt, 
Beyond the sense, like fiery dews that 

melt 
Into the bosom of a frozen bud. m 

See where she stands ! a mortal shape in- 
dued 
With love and life and light and deity, 
And motion which may change but cannot 

die; 
An image of some bright Eternity; 



A shadow of some golden dream; a Splen- 
dor 

Leaving the third sphere pilotless; a ten- 
der 

Reflection of the eternal Moon of Love, 

Under whose motions life's dull billows 
move; 

A metaphor of Spring and Youth and 
Morning; 120 

A vision like incarnate April, warning. 

With smiles and tears. Frost the Anatomy 

Into his summer grave. 

Ah ! woe is me ! 
What have I dared ? where am I lifted ? 

how 
Shall I descend, and perish not ? I know 
That Love makes all things equal; I have 

heard 
By mine own heart this joyous truth 

averred: 
The spirit of the worm beneath the sod. 
In love and worship, blends itself with God. 

Spouse ! Sister ! Angel ! Pilot of the 
Fate 130 

Whose course has been so starless ! Oh, 
too late 

Beloved ! Oh, too soon adored, by me ! 

For in the fields of immortality 

My spirit should at first have worshipped 
thine, 

A divine presence in a place divine; 

Or should have moved beside it on this 
earth, 

A shadow of that substance, from its 
birth ; 

But not as now. I love thee; yes, I feel 

That on the fountain of my heart a seal 

Is set, to keep its waters pure and bright 

For thee, since in those tears thou hast de- 
light. 141 

We — are we not formed, as notes of music 
are. 

For one another, though dissimilar; 

Such difference without discord as can 
make 

Those sweetest sounds, in which all spirits 
shake 

As trembling leaves in a continuous air ? 

Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me 
dare 
Beacon the rocks on which high hearts are 
wrecked. 



EPIPSYCHIDION 



301 



I never was attached to that great sect, 
Whose doctrine is, that each one should 
select 150 

Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend, 
And all the rest, though fair and wise, 

commend 
To cold oblivion, though 't is in the code 
Of modern morals, and the beaten road 
Which those poor slaves with weary foot- 
steps tread 
Who travel to their home among the dead 
By the broad highway of the world, and so 
With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous 

foe, 
The dreariest and the longest journey go. 

True Love in this differs from gold and 
clay, 160 

That to divide is not to take away. 
Love is like understanding that grows 

bright 
Gazing on many truths; 'tis like thy light. 
Imagination ! which, from earth and sky. 
And from the depths of human fantasy. 
As from a thousand prisms and mirrors, 

fills 
The Universe with glorious beams, and 

kills 
Error, the worm, with many a sun-like 

arrow 
Of its reverberated lightning. Narrow 
The heart that loves, the brain that con- 
templates, 170 
The life that wears, the spirit that creates 
One object, and one form, and builds 

thereby 
A sepulchre for its eternity. 

Mind from its object differs most in this; 
Evil from good; misery from happiness; 
The baser from the nobler; the impure 
And frail, from what is clear and must 

endure: 
If you divide suffering and dross, you 

may 
Diminish till it is consumed away; 
If you divide pleasure and love and thought. 
Each part exceeds the whole; and we know 

not iSi 

How much, while any yet remains unshared, 
Of pleasure may be gained, of sorrow 

spared. 
This truth is that deep well, whence sages 

draw 
The unenvied light of hope ; the eternal law 



By which those live, to whom this world of 

life 
Is as a garden ravaged, and whose strife 
Tills for the promise of a later birth 
The wilderness of this Elysian earth. 180 

There was a Being whom my spirit oft 
Met on its visioned wanderings, far aloft, 
In the clear golden prime of my youth's 

dawn. 
Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn, 
Amid the enchanted mountains, and the 

caves 
Of divine sleep, and on the air-like waves 
Of wonder-level dream, whose tremulous 

floor 
Paved her light steps. On an imagined 

shore, 
Under the gray beak of some promontory 
She met me, robed in such exceeding glory 
That I beheld her not. In solitudes 200 
Her voice came to me through the whis- 
pering woods. 
And from the fountains and the odors deep 
Of flowers, which, like lips murmuring in 

their sleep 
Of the sweet kisses which had lulled them 

there. 
Breathed but of her to the enamoured air; 
And from the breezes whether low or loud, 
And from the rain of every passing cloud. 
And from the singing of the summer-birds. 
And from all sounds, all silence. In the 

words 
Of antique verse and high romance, in 

form, 210 

Sound, color, in whatever checks that Storm 
Which with the shattered present chokes 

the past, 
And in that best philosophy, whose taste 
Makes this cold common hell, our life, a 

doom 
As glorious as a fiery martyrdom — 
Her Spirit was the harmony of truth. 

Then from the caverns of my dreamy 

youth 
I sprang, as one sandalled with plumes of 

fire, 
And towards the lodestar of my one desire 
I flitted, like a dizzy moth, whose flight 220 
Is as a dead leaf's in the owlet light. 
When it would seek in Hesper's setting 

sphere 
A radiant death, a fiery sepulchre, 



302 



EPIPSYCHIDION 



As if it were a lamp of earthly flame. 
But She, whom prayers or tears then could 

not tame, 
Passed, like a god throned on a winged 

planet, 
Whose burning plumes to tenfold swiftness 

fan it, 
Into the dreary cone of our life's shade; 
And as a man with mighty loss dismayed, 
I would have followed, though the grave 

between 230 

Yawned like a gulf whose spectres are un- 
seen; 
When a voice said : — ' O Thou of hearts 

the weakest, 
The phantom is beside thee whom thou 

seekest.' 
Then I — ' Where ? ' the world's echo an- 
swered ' Where ? ' 
And in that silence, and in my despair, 
I questioned every tongueless wind that 

flew 
Over my tower of mourning, if it knew 
Whither 't was fled, this soul out of my 

soul; 
And murmured names and spells which 

have control 
Over the sightless tyrants of our fate; 240 
But neither prayer nor verse could dissipate 
The night which closed on her; nor uncreate 
That world within this Chaos, mine and 

me. 
Of which she was the veiled Divinity, — 
The world I say of thoughts that wor- 
shipped her; 
And therefore I went forth, with hope and 

fear 
And every gentle passion sick to death. 
Feeding my course with expectation's 

breath, 
Into the wintry forest of our life ; 
And struggling through its error with vain 

strife, 250 

And stumbling in my weakness and my 

haste. 
And half bewildered by new forms, I 

passed 
Seeking among those untaught foresters 
If I could find one form resembling hers, 
In which she might have masked herself 

from me. 
There, — One whose voice was venomed 

melody 
Sate by a well, under blue night-shade 

bowers; 



The breath of her false mouth was like 

faint flowers; 
Her touch was as electric poison, — flame 
Out of her looks into my vitals came, 260 
And from her living cheeks and bosom flew 
A killing air, which pierced like honey-dew 
Into the core of my green heart, and lay 
Upon its leaves; until, as hair growai gray 
O'er a young brow, they hid its unblown 

prime 
With ruins of unseasonable time. 

In many mortal forms I rashly sought 
The shadow of that idol of my thought. 
And some were fair — but beauty dies 

away; 
Others were wise — but honeyed words 

betray; 270 

And one was true — oh ! why not true to 

me? 
Then, as a hunted deer that could not flee, 
I turned upon my thoughts, and stood at 

bay. 
Wounded and weak and panting; the cold 

day 
Trembled, for pity of my strife and pain. 
When, like a noonday dawn, there shone 

again 
Deliverance. One stood on my path who 

seemed 
As like the glorious shape, which I had 

dreamed, 
As is the Moon, whose changes ever run 
Into themselves, to the eternal Sun; 280 
The cold chaste Moon, the Queen of Hea- 
ven's bright isles. 
Who makes all beautiful on which she 

smiles; 
That wandering shrine of soft yet icy flame. 
Which ever is transformed, yet still the 

same. 
And warms not but illumines. Young and 

fair 
As the descended Spirit of that sphere. 
She hid me, as the Moon may hide the 

night 
From its own darkness, until all was bright 
Between the Heaven and Earth of my 

calm mind. 
And, as a cloud charioted by the wind, 290 
She led me to a cave in that wild place, 
And sate beside me, with her downward 

face 
Illumining my slumbers, like the Moon 
Waxing and waning o'er Endymion. 



EPIPSYCHIDION 



303 



And I was laid asleep, spirit and liinb, 
And all my being became bright or dim 
As the Moon's image in a summer sea, 
According as she smiled or frowned on me ; 
And there I lay, within a chaste cold bed. 
Alas, I then was nor alive nor dead; 300 
For at her silver voice came Death and 

Life, 
Unmindful each of their accustomed strife, 
Masked like twin babes, a sister and a 

brother, 
The wandering hopes of one abandoned 

mother. 
And through the cavern without wings they 

flew. 
And cried, ' Away ! he is not of our crew.' 
I wept, and though it be a dream, I weep. 

What storms then shook the ocean of my 

sleep. 
Blotting that Moon, whose pale and waning 

lips 309 

Then shrank as in the sickness of eclipse; 
And how my soul was as a lampless sea. 
And who was then its Tempest; and when 

She, 
The Planet of that hour, was quenched, 

what frost 
Crept o'er those waters, till from coast to 

coast 
The moving billows of my being fell 
Into a death of ice, immovable; 
And then what earthquakes made it gape 

and split, 
The white Moon smiling all the while on 

it; — 
These words conceal; if not, each word 

would be 
The key of stanchless tears. Weep not 

for me ! 320 

At length, into the obscure forest came 
The Vision I had sought through grief and 

shame. 
Athwart that wintry wilderness of thorns 
Flashed from her motion splendor like the 

Morn's, 
And from her presence life was radiated 
Through the gray earth and branches bare 

and dead; 
So that her way was paved and roofed 

above 
With flowers as soft as thoughts of budding 

love; 
And music from her respiration spread 



Like light, — all other sounds were pene- 
trated 330 
By the small, still, sweet spirit of that 

sound, 
So that the savage winds hung mute 

around ; 
And odors warm and fresh fell from her 

hair 
Dissolving the dull cold in the frore air. 
Soft as an Incarnation of the Sun, 
When light is changed to love, this glorious 

One 
Floated into the cavern where I lay. 
And called my Spirit, and the dreaming 

clay 
Was lifted by the thing that dreamed be- 
low ^ 339 
As smoke by fire, and in her beauty's glow 
I stood, and felt the dawn of my long night 
Was penetrating me with living light; 
I knew it was the Vision veiled from me 
So many years — that it was Emily. 

Twin Spheres of light who rule ^,his 

passive Earth, 
This world of love, this me ; and into birth 
Awaken all its fruits and flowers, and dart 
Magnetic might into its central heart; 
And lift its billows and its mists, and guide 
By everlasting laws each wind and tide 350 
To its fit cloud, and its appointed cave; 
And lull its storms, each in the craggy 

grave 
Which was its cradle, luring to faint bowers 
The armies of the rainbow-winged showers; 
And, as those married lights, which from 

the towers 
Of Heaven look forth and fold the wan- 
dering globe 
In liquid sleep and splendor, as a robe; 
And all their many-mingled influence 

blend. 
If equal, yet unlike, to one sweet end; — 
So ye, bright regents, with alternate sway, 
Govern my sphere of beijig, night and day \ 
Thou, not disdaining even a borrowed 

might ; 362 

Thou, not eclipsing a remoter light; 
And, through the shadow of the seasons 

three. 
From Spring to Autumn's sere maturity, 
Light it into the Winter of the tomb. 
Where it may ripen to a brighter bloom^ 
Thou too, O Comet, beautiful and fierce. 
Who drew 1>he heart of this frail Univers 



304 



EPIPSYCHIDION 



Towards thiue own; till, wrecked in that 

convulsion, 370 

Alternating attraction and repulsion, 
Thiie went astray, and that was rent in 

twain ; 
Oh, float into our azure heaven again ! 
Be there love's folding-star at thy return; 
The living Sun will feed thee from its urn 
Of golden fire; the Moon will veil her horn 
In thy last smiles; adoring Even and Morn 
Will worship thee with incense of calm 

breath 
And lights and shadows, as the star of 

Death 
And Birth is worshipped by those sisters 

wild 380 

Called Hope and Fear — upon the heart 

are piled 
Their offerings, — of this sacrifice divine 
A World shall be the altar. 

Lady mine. 
Scorn not these flowers of thought, the 

fading birth. 
Which from its heart of hearts that plant 

puts forth. 
Whose fruit, made perfect by thy sunny 

eyes, 
Will be as of the trees of Paradise. 

The day is come, and thou wilt fly with 

me. 
To whatsoe'er of dull mortality 
Is mine remain a vestal sister still; 390 

To the intense, the deep, the imperishable, 
Not mine, but me, henceforth be thou 

united 
Even as a bride, delighting and delighted. 
The hour is come — the destined Star has 

risen 
Which shall descend upon a vacant prison. 
The walls are high, the gates are strong, 

thick set 
The sentinels — but true love never yet 
Was thus constrained; it overleaps all 

fence ; 
Like lightning, with invisible violence 
Piercing its continents ; like Heaven's free 

breath, 400 

Which he who grasps can hold not; liker 

Death, 
Who rides upon a thought, and makes his 

way 
Through temple, tower, and palace, and the 

array 



Of arms; more strength has Love than he 

or they; 
For it can burst his charnel, and make free 
The limbs in chains, the heart in agony, 
The soul in dust and chaos. 

Emily, 
A ship is floating in the harbor now, 
A wind is hovering o'er the mountain's 

brow; 
There is a path on the sea's azure floor — 
No keel has ever ploughed that path be- 
fore; 411 
The halcyons brood around the foamless 

isles; 
The treacherous Ocean has forsworn its 

wiles; 
The merry mariners are bold and free : 
Say, my heart's sister, wilt thou sail with 

me? 
Our bark is as an albatross, whose nest 
Is afar Eden of the purple East; 
And we between her wings will sit, while 

Night, 
And Day, and Storm, and Calm, pursue 

their flight, 
Our ministers, along the boundless Sea, ^o 
Treading each other's heels, unheededly. 
It is an isle under Ionian skies. 
Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise, 
And, for the harbors are not safe and good, 
This land would have remained a solitude 
But for some pastoral people native there, 
Who from the Elysian, clear, and golden 

air 
Draw the last spirit of the age of gold. 
Simple and spirited, innocent and bold. 
The blue ^Egean girds this chosen home 430 
With ever-changing sound and light and 

foam 
Kissing the sifted sands and caverns hoar; 
And all the winds wandering along the 

shore 
Undulate with the undulating tide; 
There are thick woods where sylvan forms 

abide. 
And many a fountain, rivulet, and poild. 
As clear as elemental diamond, 
Or serene morning air; and far beyond. 
The mossy tracks made by the goats and 

deer 
(Which the rough shepherd treads but once 

a year) 440 

Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, 

and halls 



El^IJPSYCHiDION 



30s 



Built round with ivy, which the waterfalls 
Illumiuing, with sound that never fails 
Accompany the noonday nightingales; 
And all the place is peopled with sweet airs; 
The light clear element which the isle 

wears 
Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers, 
Which floats like mist laden with unseen 

showers, 
And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep; 
And from the moss violets and jonquils 

peep, 450 

And dart their arrowy odor through the 

brain 
Till you might faint with that delicious pain. 
And every motion, odor, beam, and tone, 
With that deep music is in unison. 
Which is a soul within the soul; they seem 
Like echoes of an antenatal dream. 
It is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, and 

Sea, 
Cradled and hung in clear tranquillity; 
Bright as that wandering Eden, Lucifer, 
Washed by the soft blue Oceans of young 

air. 460 

It is a favored place. Famine or Blight, 
Pestilence, War, and Earthquake, never 

light 
Upon its mountain-peaks; blind vultures, 

they 
Sail onward far upon their fatal way ; 
The winged storms, chanting their thunder- 
psalm 
To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm 
Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew, 
From which its fields and woods ever renew 
Their green and golden immortality. 
And from the sea there rise, and from the 

sky _ 470 

There fall, clear exhalations, soft and 

bright, 
Veil after veil, each hiding some delight. 
Which Sun or Moon or zephyr draw aside, 
Till the isle's beauty, like a naked bride 
Glowing at once with love and loveliness, 
Blushes and trembles at its own excess; 
Yet, like a buried lamp, a Soul no less 
Burns in the heart of this delicious isle, 
An atom of the Eternal, whose own smile 
Unfolds itself, and may be felt, not seen, 480 
O'er the gray rocks, blue waves, and forests 

green. 
Filling their bare and void interstices. 
But the chief marvel of the wilderness 
Is a lone dwelling, built by whom or how 



None of the rustic island-people know; 
'T is not a tower of strength, though with 

its height 
It overtops the woods; but, for delight, 
Some wise and tender Ocean-King, ere 

crime 
Had been invented, in the world's young 

prime, 
Reared it, a wonder of that simple time, 490 
And envy of the isles, a pleasure-house 
Made sacred to his sister and his spouse. 
It scarce seems now a wreck of human art, 
But, as it were, Titanic, in the heart 
Of Earth having assumed its form, then 

grown 
Out of the mountains, from the living stone, 
Lifting itself in caverns light and high; 
For all the antique and learned imagery 
Has been erased, and in the place of it 
The ivy and the wild vine interknit 500 

The volumes of their many-twining stems; 
Parasite flowers illume with dewy gems 
The lampless halls, and, when they fade, 

the sky 
Peeps through their winter-woof of tracery 
With moonlight patches, or star-atoms keen, 
Or fragments of the day's intense serene. 
Working mosaic on their Parian floors. 
And, day and night, aloof, from the high 

towers 
And terraces, the Earth and Ocean seem 
To sleep in one another's arms, and dream 
Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, 

and all that we 511 

Read in their smiles, and call reality. 

This isle and house are mine, and I have 
vowed 
Thee to be lady of the solitude. 
And I have fitted up some chambers there 
Looking towards the golden Eastern air. 
And level with the living winds, which flow 
Like waves above the living waves below. 
I have sent books and music there, and all 
Those instruments with which high spirits 
call S2C 

The future from its cradle, and the past 
Out of its grave, and make the present last 
In thoughts and joys which sleep, but can- 
not die, 
Folded within their own eternity. 
Our simple life wants little, and true taste 
Hires not the pale drudge Luxury to waste 
The scene it would adorn, and therefore still 
Nature with all her children haunts the hill 



3o6 



EPIPSYCHIDION 



The riug-dove, in the embowering ivy, yet 
Keeps up her love-lament, and the owls flit 
Round the evening tower, and the young 
stars glance 531 

Between the quick bats in their twilight 

dance; 
The spotted deer bask in the fresh moon- 
light 
Before our gate, and the slow silent night 
Is measured by the pants of their calm 

sleep. 
Be this our home in life, and when years 

heap 
Their withered hours, like leaves, on our 

decay. 
Let us become the overhanging day. 
The living soul of this Elysian isle, 539 

Conscious, inseparable, one. Meanwhile 
We two will rise, and sit, and walk together 
Under the roof of blue Ionian weather. 
And wander in the meadows, or ascend 
The mossy mountains, where the blue hea- 
vens bend 
With lightest winds, to touch their para- 
mour; 
Or linger, where the pebble-paven shore, 
Under the quick faint kisses of the sea 
Trembles and sparkles as with ecstasy, — 
Possessing and possessed by all that is 549 
Within that calm circumference of bliss, 
And by each other, till to love and live 
Be one; or, at the noontide hour, arrive 
Where some old cavern hoar seems yet to 

keep 
The moonlight of the expired night asleep, 
Through which the awakened day can Hever 

peep; 
A veil for our seclusion, close as Night's, 
Where secure sleep may kill thine innocent 

lights; 
Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the rain 
Whose drops quench kisses till they burn 
again. 559 

And we will talk, until thought's melody 
Become too sweet for utterance, and it die 
In words, to live again in looks, which dart 
With thrilling tone into the voiceless heart, 
Harmonizing silence without a sound. 
Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms 

bound. 
And our veins beat together; and our lips, 
With other eloquence than words, eclipse 
The soul that burns between them; and the 

wells ' 

Which boil under our beinsr's inmost oells. 



The fountains of our deepest life, shall be 
Confused in passion's golden purity, 571 
As mountain-springs under the morning 

Sun. 
We shall become the same, we shall be one 
Spirit within two frames, oh ! wherefore 

two? 
One passion in twin-hearts, which grows 

and grew. 
Till like two meteors of expanding flame 
Those spheres instinct with it become the 

same , 
Touch, mingle, are transfigured; ever still 
Burning, yet ever inconsumable; 
In one another's substance finding food, 580 
Like flames too pure and light and unim- 

bned 
To nourish their bright lives with baser 

prey. 
Which point to Heaven and cannot pass 

away; 
One hope within two wills, one will beneath 
Two overshadowing minds, one life, one 

death. 
One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality, 
And one annihilation. Woe is me ! 
The winged words on which my soul would 

pierce 
Into the height of love's rare Universe, 
Are chains of lead around its flight of fire. 
I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire ! 591 



Weak Verses, go, kneel at your Sover- 
eign's feet, 
And say : — ' We are the masters of thy 

slave ; 
What wouldest thou with us and ours and 

thine ? ' 
Then call your sisters from Oblivion's cave, 
All singing loud: 'Love's very pain is 

sweet, 
But its reward is in the world divine. 
Which, if not here, it builds beyond the 

grave.' 
So shall ye live when I am there. Then 

haste 
Over the hearts of men, until ye meet 600 
Marina, Vanna, Primus, and the rest. 
And bid them love each other and be 

blessed; 
And leave the troop which errs, and which 

reproves. 
And come and be my guest, — for I am 

Love's. 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 



307 



ADONAIS 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS 



'AcTTTjp nplv fiev ekafine^ ivl ^wotcrtv eu>os. 

Nvv fie davuiv, A.a/u,;reis ecrnepos ev (jjOifxevOLi. 



Plato. 



Adonais, perhaps the most widely read of 
the longer poems of Shelley, owes something- 
of its charm to the fact noted by Mrs. Shelley 
that much in it ' seems now more applicable to 
Shelley himself than to the young and gifted 
poet whom he mourned.' The elegy has con- 
tributed much to the feeling that links these 
two poets in one memory, though in life they 
were rather pleasant than intimate friends. 
Keats died at Rome, February 23, 1821 ; and 
Shelley composed the poem between the late 
days of May and June 11, or at the latest, June 
16 ; it was printed at Pisa, under his own care, 
by July 13, and copies sent to London for issue 
there by his publisher. During the period of 
composition he felt that he was succeeding, and 
wrote of it as ' a highly wrought piece of art, 
and perhaps better, in point of composition, 
than anything I have written ; ' and after its 
completion, he says, ' The Adonais^ in spite of 
its mysticism, is the least imperfect of my 
compositions, and, as the image of my regret 
and honor for poor Keats, I wish it to be so.' 
He continued to indulge hopes of its success, 
as in the case of The Cenci, though on a differ- 
ent plane, and wrote to Oilier, ' I am especially 
curious to hear the fate of jidonais. I confess 
I should be surprised if that poem were born 
to an immortality of oblivion ; ' and, shortly 
after this, to Hunt, — ' Pray tell me what ef- 
fect was produced by Adonais. My faculties 
are shaken to atoms, and torpid. I can write 
noiiiing ; and if Adonais had no success and 
excited no interest, what incentive can I have 
to write ? ' A month or two later he writes to 
Gisborne, still strowg in his faith in the poem, 
— ' I know what to think of Adonais, but 
what to think of those who confound it with 
the many bad poems of the day, I know not. 
... It is absurd in any Review to criticise 
Adonais, and still more to pretend that the 
verses are bad.' His friends praised it, except 
Byron, who kept silence, perhaps, Shelley says, 
because he was mentioned in it. Shelley's let- 
ter to Severn has a peculiar interest : — 

' I send you the Elegy on poor Keats — and 
I wish it were better worth your acceptance. 
You will see, by the preface, that it was writ- 
ten before I could obtain any particular ac- 
eoTint of his last moments ; all that I still 
know, was communicated to me by a friend 



who had derived his information from Colonel 
Finch ; I have ventured to express, as I felt, 
the respect and admiration which your conduct 
towards him demands. 

' In spite of his transcendent genius, Keats 
never was, nor ever will be, a popular poet ; 
and the total neglect and obscurity in which 
the astonishing remnants of his mind still 
lie, was hardly to be dissipated by a writer, 
who, however he may differ from Keats in 
more important qualities, at least resembles 
him in that accidental one, a want of popu- 
larity. 

' I have little hope, therefore, that the poem 
I send you will excite any attention, nor do I 
feel assured that a critical notice of his writings 
would find a single reader. But for these con- 
siderations, it had been my intention to have 
collected the remnants of his compositions, 
and to have published them with a Life and 
Criticism. Has he left any poems or writings 
of whatsoever kind, and in whose possession 
are they ? Perhaps you would oblige me by 
information on this point.' 

PREFACE 

^dpfioKov T^A^e, Biwv, ttotI crov arofia, (fydpfj-aKOv ctfie?. 
ToiouTOi? x^^^^^'^'- TOTc'fipa/ae, kovk lykvuavOi} ; 
Tis fie jSpoTO? TO(T<TOVTOv oLpdixepoi, 7} KepdcraL toi 
*H fioOvat x'^reoi'Tt, to (fydpixaKov eK(j)vyev dSav ; 

MoscHus, Epitaph. Bion. 

It is my intention to subjoin to the London 
edition of this poem a criticism upon the claims 
of its lamented object to be classed among the 
writers of the highest genius who have adorned 
our age. My known repugnance to the narrow 
principles of taste on which several of his 
earlier compositions were modelled prove, at 
least, that I am an impartial judge. I consider 
the fragment of Hyperion as second to nothing 
that was ever produced by a writer of the 
same years. 

John Keats died at Rome of a consumption, 

in his twenty-fourth year, on the of 

1821 ; and was buried in the romantic and 
lonely cemetery of the Protestants in that city, 
under the pyramid which is the tomb of Ces- 
tius and the massy walls and towers, now 
mouldering and desolate, which formed the 
circuit of ancient Rome. The cemetery is an 



So8 



ADONAIS 



open space among the ruins, covered in winter 
with violets and daisies. It might make one 
in love with death to think that one should be 
buried in so sweet a place. 

The genius of the lamented person to whose 
memory I have dedicated these unworthy 
verses was not less delicate and fragile than it 
was beautiful ; and where cankerworms abound 
what wonder if its young flower was blighted 
in the bud ? The savage criticism on his En- 
dymion, which appeared in the Quarterly Re- 
view, produced the most violent effect on his 
susceptible mind ; the agitation thus originated 
ended in the rupture of a blood-vessel in the 
lungs ; a rapid consumption ensued, and the 
succeeding acknowledgments from more can- 
did critics of the true greatness of his powers 
were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wan- 
tonly inflicted. 

It may be well said that these wretched men 
know not what they do. They scatter their 
insults and their slanders without heed as to 
whether the poisoned shaft lights on a heart 
made callous by many blows, or one like 
Keats's composed of more penetrable stuff. 
One of their associates is, to my knowledge, a 
most base and unprincipled calumniator. As 
to Endymion, was it a poem, whatever might 
be its defects, to be treated contemptuously by 
those who had celebrated with various degrees 
of complacency and panegyric Paris and \Vo- 
vian and a Syrian Tale, and Mrs. Lefanu and 
Mr. Barrett and Mr. Howard Payne and a long 
list of the illustrious obscure ? Are these the 
men who in their venal good nature presumed 
to draw a parallel between the Rev. Mr. Mil- 
man and Lord Byron ? What gnat did they 



I WEEP for Adonais — he is dead ! 

Oh, weep for Adonais I though our tears 

Thav^r not the frost which binds so dear a 

head ! 
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all 

years 
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure 

compeers, 
And teach them thine own sorrow ! Say : 

* With me 
Died Adonais; till the Future dares 
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be 
A.n echo and a light unto eternity ! ' 

II 
Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when 

he lay, 
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft 

which flies 



strain at here after having swallowed all those 
camels ? Against what woman taken in adul- 
tery dares the foremost of these literary pros- 
titutes to cast his opprobrious stone ? Mis- 
erable man ! you, one of the meanest, have 
wantonly defaced one of the noblest specimens 
of the workmanship of God. Nor shall it be 
your excuse that, murderer as you are, you 
have spoken daggers but used none. 

The circumstances of the closing scene of 
poor Keats's life were not made known to me 
until the Elegy was ready for the press. I am 
given to undei'stand that the wound which his 
sensitive spirit had received from the criticism 
of Endymion was exasperated by the bitter 
sense of unrequited benefits ; the poor fellow 
seems to have been hooted from the stage of 
life no less by those on whom he had wasted 
the promise of his genius than those on whom 
he had lavished his fortune and his care. He 
was accompanied to Rome and attended in his 
last illness by Mr. Severn, a young artist of the 
highest promise, who, I have been informed, 
' almost risked his own life, and sacrificed 
every prospect to unwearied attendance upon 
his dying friend.' Had I known these circum- 
stances before the completion of my poem, I 
should have been tempted to add my feeble trib- 
ute of applause to the more solid recompense 
which the virtuous man finds in the recollection 
of his own motives. Mr. Severn can dispense 
with a reward from ' such stuff as dreams are 
made of.' His conduct is a golden augury of 
the success of his future career — may the 
unextinguished Spirit of his illustrious friend 
animate the creations of his pencil, and plead 
against Oblivion for his name ! 

In darkness ? where was lorn Urania 
When Adonais died ? With veiled eyes, 
'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise 
She sate, while one, with soft enamoured 

breath. 
Rekindled all the fading melodies. 
With which, like flowers that mock the 

corse beneath, 
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk 

of death. 

Ill 

Oh, weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and 

weep ! 
Yet wherefore ? Quench within their 

burning bed 
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart 

keep 
Like his a mute and uncomplaining 

sleep; 



ADONAIS 



3^^ 



For he is gone where all things wise and 
fair 

Descend. Oh, dream not that the amor- 
ous Deep 

Will yet restore him to the vital air; 
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs 
at our despair. 

IV 

Most musical of mourners, weep again ! 
Lament anew, Urania ! — He died, 
Who was the sire of an immortal strain. 
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's 

pride 
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide 
Trampled and mocked with many a 

loathed rite 
Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified. 
Into the gulf of death; but his clear 

Sprite 
Yet reigns o'er earth, the third among the 

sons of light. 



Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
Not all to that bright station dared to 

climb; 
And happier they their happiness who 

knew. 
Whose tapers yet burn through that 

night of time 
In which suns perished; others more 

sublime. 
Struck by the envious wrath of man or 

God, 
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent 

prime ; 
And some yet live, treading the thorny 

road, 
W^hich leads, through toil and hate, to 

Fame's serene abode. 

VI 

But now, thy youngest, dearest one has 

perished, 
The nursling of thy widowhood, who 

grew. 
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden 

cherished 
And fed with true-love tears instead of 

dew; 
Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
I'hy extreme hope, the loveliest and the 

last, 



The bloom, whose petals, nipped before 
they blew, 

Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; 
The broken lily lies — the storm is over- 
past. 



VII 



To that high Capital, where kingly Death 
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay. 
He came ; and bought, with price of pur- 
est breath, 
A grave among the eternal. — Come 



away 



Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day 
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while 

still 
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; 
Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill 
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. 

VIII 

He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 

Within the twilight chamber spreads 
apace 

The shadow of white Death, and at the 
door 

Invisible Corruption waits to trace 

His extreme way to her dim dwelling- 
place ; 

The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and 
awe 

Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to 
deface 

So fair a prey, till darkness and the law 
Of change shall o'er his sleep the mortal 
curtain draw. 

IX 

Oh, weep for Adonais ! — The quick 

Dreams, 
The passion-winged ministers of thought. 
Who were his flocks, whom near the liv- 
ing streams 
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he 

taught 
The love which was its music, wander 

not, — 
Wander no more, from kindling brain to 

brain, 
But droop there, whence they sprung; 

and mourn their lot 
Round the cold heart, where, after their 

sweet pain. 
They ne'er will gather strength, or find a 

home again. 



3IO 



ADONAIS 



And one with trembling hand clasps his 

cold head, 
And fans him with her moonlight wings, 

and cries, 
' Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not 

dead; 
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes. 
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there 

lies 
A tear some Dream has loosened from 

his brain.' 
Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise ! 
She knew not 't was her own ; as with no 

stain 
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept 

its rain. 

XI 

One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
Washed his light limbs, as if embalming 

them ; 
Another clipped her profuse locks, and 

threw 
The wreath upon him, like an anadem, 
Which frozen tears instead of pearls be- 
gem; 
Another in her wilful grief would break 
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem 
A greater loss with one which was more 
weak; 
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen 
cheek. 

XII 
Another Splendor on his mouth alit, 
That mouth whence it was wont to draw 

the breath 
Which gave it strength to pierce the 

guarded wit. 
And pass into the panting heart beneath 
With lightning and with music; the 

damp death 
Quenched its caress upon his icy lips; 
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
Of moonlight vapor, which the cold night 

clips. 
It flushed through his pale limbs, and 

passed to its eclipse. 

XIII 

And others came — Desires and Adora- 
tions, 

Winged Persuasions and veiled Desti- 
nies, 



Splendors, and Glooms, and glimmering 

Incarnations 
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Fanta- 
sies; 
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs^, 
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by 

the gleam 
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 
Came in slow pomp; — the moving pomp 
might seem 
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal 
stream. 

XIV 

All he had loved, and moulded into 

thought 
From shape, and hue, and odor, and sweet 

sound. 
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
Her eastern watch tower, and her hair 

unbound. 
Wet with the tears which should adorn 

the ground. 
Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day; 
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned. 
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay. 
And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in 

their dismay. 

XV 

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless moun- 
tains, 

And feeds her grief with his remem- 
bered lay. 

And will no more reply to winds or 
fountains, 

Or amorous birds perched on the young 
green spray, 

Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing 
day; 

Since she can mimic not his lips, more 
dear 

Than those for whose disdain she pined 
away 

Into a shadow of all sounds: — a drear 
Murmur, between their songs, is all the 
woodmen hear. 

XVI 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and 

she threw down 
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn 

were. 
Or they dead leaves; since her delight is 

flown. 



ADONAIS 



311 



For whom should she have waked the 

sullen year ? 
To Phcebus was not Hyacinth so dear, 
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 
Thon, Adonais; wan they stand and sere 
Amid the faint companions of their youth, 
With dew all turned to tears; odor, to 

sighing ruth. 

XVII 

Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale. 

Mourns not her mate with such melo- 
dious pain; 

Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale 

Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's 
domain 

Her mighty youth with morning, doth 
complain, 

Soaring and screaming round her empty 
nest, 

As Albion wails for thee: the curse of 
Cain 

Light on his head who pierced thy inno- 
cent breast, 
And scared the angel soul that was its 
earthly guest ! 

XVIII 

Ah woe is me ! Winter is come and gone. 
But grief returns with the revolving 

year; 
The airs and streams renew their joyous 

tone; 
The ants, the bees, the swallows, reap- 
pear; 
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead 

Seasons' bier; 
The amorous birds now pair in every 

brake, 
And build their mossy homes in field and 

brere ; 
And the green lizard and the golden 

snake, 
Like unimprisoned flames, out of their 

trance awake. 

XIX 

Through wood and stream and field and 

hill and Ocean, 
A quickening life from the Earth's heart 

has burst. 
As it has ever done, with change and 

motion. 
From the great morning of the world 

when first 



God dawned on Chaos; in its stream im- 
mersed, 

The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer 
light; 

All baser things pant with life's sacred 
thirst. 

Diffuse themselves, and spend in love's 
delight 
The beauty and the joy of their renewed 
might. 

XX 

The leprous corpse, touched by this spirit 

tender. 
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath; 
Like incarnations of the stars, when 

splendor 
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine 

death 
And mock the merry worm that wakes 

beneath. 
Nought we know dies. Shall that alone 

which knows 
Be as a sword consumed before the 

sheath 
By sightless lightning ? the intense atom 

glows 
A moment, then is quenched in a most cold 

repose. 

XXI 

Alas ! that all we loved of him should be, 
But for our grief, as if it had not been. 
And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! 
Whence are we, and why are we ? of 

what scene 
The actors or spectators ? Great and 

mean 
Meet massed in death, who lends what 

life must borrow. 
As long as skies are blue and fields are 

green, 
Evening must usher night, night urge 

the morrow. 
Month follow month with woe, and year 

wake year to sorrow. 

XXII 

He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 
'Wake thou,' cried Misery, 'childless 

Mother, rise 
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's 

core, 
A wound more fierce than his with tears 

and sighs,' 



312 



ADONAIS 



And all the Dreams that watched Ura- 
nia's eyes, 

And all the Echoes whom their sister's 
song 

Had held in holy silence, cried, * Arise ! ' 

Swift as a Thought by the snake Mem- 
ory stung, 
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splen- 
dor sprung. 

XXIII 

She rose like an autumnal Night, that 
springs 

Out of the East, and follows wild and 
drear 

The golden Day, which, on eternal wings. 

Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, 

Had left the Earth a corpse; — sorrow 
and fear 

So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania; 

So saddened round her like an atmo- 
sphere 

Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way 
Even to the mournful place where Adonais 
lay. 

XXIV 

Out of her secret Paradise she sped. 
Through camps and cities rough with 

stone, and steel. 
And human hearts which, to her airy 

tread 
Yielding not, wounded the invisible 
Palms of her tender feet where'er they 

fell; 
And barbed tongues, and thoughts more 

sharp than they. 
Rent the soft Form they never could 

repel, 
Whose sacred blood, like the young tears 

of May, 
Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving 

way. 

XXV 

In the death-chamber for a moment 

Death, 
Shamed by the presence of that living 

Might, 
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath 
Revisited those lips, and life's pale light 
Flashed through those limbs, so late her 

dear delight. 
* Leave me not wild and drear and com' 

fortless, 



As silent lightning leaves the starless 

night ! 
Leave me not ! ' cried Urania; her dis- 
tress 
Roused Death ; Death rose and smiled, and 
met her vain caress. 

XXVI 

* Stay yet awhile ! speak to me once again; 
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live; 
And in my heartless breast and burning 

brain 
That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts 

else survive. 
With food of saddest memory kept 

alive, 
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 
Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give 
All that I am to be as thou now art ! 
But I am chained to Time, and cannot 

thence depart ! 

XXVII 

* gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, 
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths 

of men 
Too soon, and with weak hands though 

mighty heart 
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den ? 
Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was 

then 
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn 

the spear ? 
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when 
Thy spirit should have filled its crescent 

sphere. 
The monsters of life's waste had fled from 

thee like deer. 

XXVIII 

'The herded wolves, bold only to pursuer 
The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the 

dead; 
The vultures, to the conqueror's banner 

true, 
Who feed where Desolation first has 

fed, 
And whose wings rain contagion; — how 

they fled, 
When, like Apollo, from his golden bow 
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 
And smiled ! — The spoilers tempt no 

second blow. 
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn 

them lying low- 



ADONAIS 



313 



XXIX 

^ The Sim comes forth, and many reptiles 
spawn ; 
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 
Is gathered into death without a dawn, 
And the immortal stars awake again; 
So is it in the world of living men: 
A godlike mind soars forth, in its de- 
light 
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, 

and when 
It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or 
shared its light 
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's aw- 
ful night.' 

XXX 

Thus ceased she; and the mountain 

shepherds came. 
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles 

rent; 
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 
Over his living head like Heaven is bent. 
An early but enduring monument, 
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his 

song 
In sorrow; from her wilds lerne sent 
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong. 
And love taught grief to fall like music 

from his tongue. 

XXXI 

'Midst others of less note, came one frail 

Form, 
A phantom among men; companionless 
As the last cloud of an expiring storm 
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess, 
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, 
Actseon-like, and now he fled astray 
With feeble steps o'er the world's wil- 
derness. 
And his own thoughts, along that rugged 
way. 
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father 
and their prey. 

XXXII 

A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift — 
A love in desolation masked ; — a Power 
Girt round with weakness; — it can 

scarce uplift 
The weight of the superincumbent hour; 
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 
A breaking billow; — even whilst we 

speak 



Is it not broken ? On the withering 

flower 
The killing sun smiles brightly; on a 

cheek 
The life can burn in blood, even while the 

heart may break. 

XXXIII 

His head was bound with pansies over- 
blown. 
And faded violets, white, and pied, and 

blue; 
And a light spear topped with a cypress 

cone, 
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses 

grew 
Yet dripping with the forest's noonday 

dew. 
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 
Shook the weak hand that grasped it; 

of that crew 
He came the last, neglected and apart; 
A herd-abandoned deer struck by the 

hunter's dart. 

XXXIV 

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 
Smiled through their tears; well knew 

that gentle band 
Who in another's fate now wept his own, 
As in the accents of an unknown land 
He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scanned 
The Stranger's mien, and murmured: 

< Who art thou ? * 
He answered not, but with a sudden hand 
Made bare his branded and ensanguined 

brow. 
Which was like Cain's or Christ's — oh ! 

that it should be so ! 

XXXV 

What softer voice is hushed over tht 

dead? 
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle 

thrown ? 
What form leans sadly o'er the white 

death-bed, 
In mockery of monumental stone. 
The heavy heart heaving without a moan^ 
If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise. 
Taught, soothed, loved, honored the de 

parted one, 
Let me not vex with inharmonious sighs 
The silence of that heart's accepted sacri 

fice. 



su 



ADONAIS 



XXXVI 

Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh, 
What deaf and viperous murderer could 

crown 
Life's early cup with such a draught of 

woe ? 
The nameless worm would now itself 

disown ; 
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 
Whose prelude held all envy, hate and 

wrong. 
But what was howling in one breast 

alone. 
Silent with expectation of the song, 
W^hose master's hand is cold, whose silver 

lyre unstrung. 

XXXVII 

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy 

fame ! 
Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from 

me. 
Thou noteless blot on a remembered 

name ! 
But be thyself, and know thyself to 

be! 
And ever at thy season be thou free 
To spill the venom when thy fangs o'er- 

flow; 
Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling 

to thee; 
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret 

brow, 
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt 

— as now. 

XXXVIII 

Nor let us weep that our delight is 

fled 
Far from these carrion kites that scream 

below; 
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring 

dead; 
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting 

now. 
Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit 

shall flow 
Back to the burning fountain whence it 

came, 
A portion of the Eternal, which must 

glow 
Through time and change, unquenchably 

the same. 
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid 

hearth of shame. 



XXXIX 

Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth 

not sleep — 
He hath awakened from the dream of 

life — 
'T is we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep 
With phantoms an unprofitable strife, 
And in mad trance strike with our spir- 
it's knife 
Invulnerable nothings. We decay 
Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief 
Convulse us and consume us day by 
day. 
And cold hopes swarm like worms within 
our living clay. 

XL 

He has outsoared the shadow of our 
night; 

Envy and calumny and hate and pain, 

And that unrest which men miscall de- 
light. 

Can touch him not and torture not again; 

From the contagion of the world's slow 
stain 

He is secure, and now can never mourn 

A heart grown cold, a head grown gray 
in vain; 

Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to 
burn. 
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented 
urn. 

XLI 

He lives, he wakes — 't is Death is dead, 

not he; 
Mourn not for Adonais. — Thou young 

Dawn, 
Turn all thy dew to splendor, for from 

thee 
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; 
Ye cavern sand ye forests, cease to moan ! 
Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and 

thou Air, 
Which like a mourning veil thy scarf 

hadst thrown 
O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it 

bare 
Even to the joyous stars which smile on its 

despair ! 

XLII 

He is made ono with Nature: there is 

heard 
His voice in all her music, from the moav 



ADONAIS 



315 



Of thunder to the song of night's sweet 
bird; 

He is a presence to be felt and known 

In darkness and in light, from herb and 
stone, 

Spreading itself where'er that Power 
may move 

Which has withdrawn hisbeingto its own; 

Which wields the world with never- wea- 
ried love, 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it 
above. 

XLIII 

He is a portion of the loveliness 

Which once he made more lovely; he 

doth bear 
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic 

stress 
Sweeps through the dull dense world, 

compelling there 
All new successions to the forms they 

wear. 
Torturing the unwilling dross that checks 

its flight 
To its own likeness, as each mass may 

bear. 
And bursting in its beauty and its might 
From trees and beasts and men into the 

Heaven's light. 

XLIV 

The splendors of the firmament of time 
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished 

not; 
Like stars to their appointed height they 

climb. 
And death is a low mist which cannot 

blot 
The brightness it may veil. When lofty 

thought 
Lifts a young heart above its mortal 

lair, 
And love and life contend in it for what 
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live 

there 
And move like winds of light on dark and 

stormy air. 

XLV 

The inheritors of unfulfilled renown 
Rose from their thrones, built beyond 

mortal thought. 
Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton 
Rose pale, — his solemn agony had not 



Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he fought 
And as he fell and as he lived and loved 
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot. 
Arose; and Lucan, by his death ap- 
proved; 
Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing 
reproved. 

XLVI 

And many more, whose names on earth 

are dark 
But whose transmitted effluence cannot 

die 
So long as fire outlives the parent spark, 
Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 
* Thou art become as one of us,' they 

cry; 
' It was for thee yon kingless sphere has 

long 
Swung blind in unascended majesty. 
Silent alone amid an Heaven of song. 
Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of 

our throng ! ' 

XLVII 

Who mourns for Adonais ? Oh, come 

forth. 
Fond wretch ! and know thyself and him 

aright. 
Clasp with thy panting soul the pendu- 
lous Earth; 
As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light 
Beyond all worlds, until its spacious 

might 
Satiate the void circumference; then 

shrink 
Even to a point within our day and night; 
And keep th}' heart light lest it make 

thee sink 
When hope has kindled hope, and lured 

thee to the brink. 

XLVIII 

Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre. 
Oh, not of him, but of our joy; 't is 

nought 
That ages, empires, and religions, there 
Lie buried in the ravage they have 

wrought; 
For such as he can lend, — they borrow 

not 
Glory from those who made the world 

their prey; 
And he is gathered to the kings of 

thought 



3i6 



ADONAIS 



Who waged contention with their time's 
decay, 
And of the past are all that cannot pass 
away. 

XLIX 

Go thou to Rome, — at once the Para- 
dise, 

The grave, the city, and the wilderness; 

And where its wrecks like shattered 
mountains rise. 

And flowering weeds and fragrant copses 
dress 

The bones of Desolation's nakedness. 

Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall 
lead 

Thy footsteps to a slope of green access. 

Where, like an infant's smile, over the 
dead 
A light of laughing flowers along the grass 
is spread; 



And gray walls moulder round, on which 

dull Time 
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
And one keen pyramid with wedge sub- 
lime, 
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 
This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
Like flame transformed to marble; and 

beneath, 
A field is spread, on which a newer band 
Have pitched in Heaven's smile their 
camp of death. 
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extin- 
guished breath. 

LI 

Here pause: these graves are all too 

young as yet 
To have outgrown the sorrow which con- 
signed 
Its charge to each; and if the seal is 

set, 
Here, on one fountain of a mourning 

mind, 
Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou 

find 
Thine own well full, if thou returnest 

home, 
Of tears and gall. From the world's 

bitter wind 
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 
What Adonais is, why fear we to become ? 



LII 

The One remains, the many change and 

pass; 
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's 

shadows fly; 
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
Until Death tramples it to fragments. — 

Die, 
If thou wouldst be with that which thou 

dost seek ! 
Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's 

azure sky. 
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are 

weak 
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth 

to speak. 

LIII 

Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, 

my Heart ? 
Thy hopes are gone before; from all 

things here 
They have departed ; thou shouldst now 

depart ! 
A light is passed from the revolving 

year. 
And man, and woman; and what still is 

dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee 

wither. 
The soft sky smiles, — the low wind 

whispers near; 
'T is Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither, 
No more let Life divide what Death can 

join together. 

LIV 

That Light whose smile kindles the Uni- 
verse, 
That Beauty in which all things work 

and move, 
That Benediction which the eclipsing 

Curse 
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining 

Love 
Which through the web of being blindly 

wove 
By man and beast and earth and air and 

sea. 
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors 

of 
The fire for which all thirst, now beams 

on me. 
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. 



PROLOGUE 



317 



LV 

The breath whose might I have invoked 
in song 

Descends on me; my spirit's bark is 
driven 

Far from the shore, far from the trem- 
bling throng 

Whose sails were never to the tempest 
given; 



The massy earth and sphered skies are 

riven ! 
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; 
Whilst, burning through the inmost veil 

of Heaven, 
The soul of Adonais, like a star, 
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal 

are. 



HELLAS 



A LYRICAL DRAMA 



MANTIS 'EIM* 'ESeAON 'ArfiNflN 

CEdip. Colon. 



Hellas^ the last of Shelley's political poems, 
was written at Pisa in the fall of 1821, and 
published the next spring at London by Oilier, 
who made some omissions in the notes and 
preface with Shelley's permission. Edward 
Williams suggested the title, and was much 
interested in the poem as it grew. Shelley de- 
scribes it, during its composition, as ' a sort of 
imitation of the Persce of ^schylus, full of 
lyrical poetry. I try to be what I might 
have been, but am not successful ; ' and in 
mentioning to Gisborne the accuracy of the 
proof-reading he says, — ' Am I to thank you 
for the revision of the press ? or who acted as 
midwife to this last of my orphans, introducing 
it to oblivion, and me to my accustomed fail- 
ure ? May the cause it celebrates be more 
fortunate than either ! Tell me how you like 
Hellas, and give me your opinion freely. It 
was written without much care, and in one of 
those few moments of enthusiasm which now 
seldom visit me, and which make me pay dear 
for their visits.' 

Mrs. Shelley's note gives an excellent account 
of the circumstances amid which it was written, 
and of its spirit : 

' The south of Europe was in a state of great 
political excitement at the beginning of the 
year 1821. The Spanish Revolution had been 
a signal to Italy — secret societies were formed 
— and when Naples rose to declare the Con- 
stitution, the call was responded to from 
Brundusium to the foot of the Alps. To crush 
these attempts to obtain liberty, early in 1821, 
the Austrians poured their armies into the 
Peninsula : at first their coming rather seemed 
to add energy and resolution to a people long 
enslaved. The Piedraontese asserted their 
freedom ; Genoa threw off the yoke of the 
King of Sardinia ; and, as if in playful imita- 
tion, the people of the little state of Massa and 



Carrara gave the cong^ to their sovereign and 
set up a republic. 

* Tuscany alone was perfectly tranquil. It 
was said that the Austrian minister presented 
a list of sixty Carbonari to the grand-duke, 
urging their imprisonment ; and the grand- 
duke replied, " I do not know whether these 
sixty men are Carbonari, but I know if I 
imprison them, I shall directly have sixty 
thousand start up." But though the Tuscans 
had no desire to disturb the paternal govern- 
ment, beneath whose shelter they slumbered, 
they regarded the progress of the various 
Italian revolutions with intense interest, and 
hatred for the Austrian was warm in every 
bosom. But they had slender hopes ; they 
knew that the Neapolitans would offer no fit 
resistance to the regular German troops, and 
that the overthrow of the Constitution in 
Naples would act as a decisive blow against 
all struggles for liberty in Italy. 

' We have seen the rise and progress of re- 
form. But the Holy Alliance was alive and 
active in those days, and few could dream of 
the peaceful triumph of liberty. It seemed 
then that the armed assertion of freedom in 
the south of Europe was the only hope of the 
liberals, as, if it prevailed, the nations of the 
north would imitate the example. Happily 
the reverse has proved the fact. The coun- 
tries accustomed to the exercise of the privi- 
leges of freemen, to a limited extent, have 
extended, and are extending these limits. 
Freedom and knowledge have now a chance of 
proceeding hand in hand ; and if it continue 
thus, we may hope for the durability of both. 
Then, as I have said, in 1821, Shelley, as well 
as every other lover of liberty, looked upon the 
struggles in Spain and Italy as decisive of the 
destinies of the world, probably for centuries 
to come. The interest he took in the progress 



'318 



HELLAS 



of affairs was intense. When Genoa declared 
itself free, his hopes were at their highest. 
Day after day, he read the bulletins of the 
Austrian array, and sought eagerly to gather 
tokens of its defeat. He heard of the revolt 
of Genoa with emotions of transport. His 
whole heart and soul were in the triumph of 
their cause. We were living at Pisa at that 
time ; and several well-informed Italians, at 
the head of whom we may place the celebrated 
Vaccd, were accustomed to seek for sympathy 
in their hopes from Shelley : they did not find 
such for the despair they too generally experi- 
enced, founded on contempt for their southern 
countrymen. 

' While the fate of the progress of the Aus- 
trian armies then invading Naples was yet in 
suspense, the news of another revolution filled 
him with exultation. We had formed the ac- 
quaintance at Pisa of several Constantinopol- 
itan Greeks, of the family of Prince Caradja, 
formerly Hospodar of Wallachia, who, hearing 
that the bowstring, the accustomed finale of 
his viceroy alty, was on the road to him, escaped 
with his treasures, and took up his abode in 
Tuscany. Among these was the gentleman to 
whom the drama of Hellas is dedicated. Prince 
Mavrocordato was warmed by those aspirations 
for the independence of his country, which 
filled the hearts of many of his countrymen. 
He often intimated the possibility of an insur- 
rection in Greece ; but we had no idea of its 
being so near at hand, when, on the 1st of 
April, 1821, he called on Shelley; bringing 
the proclamation of his cousin, Prince Ipsi- 
lanti, and, radiant with exultation and delight, 
declared that henceforth Greece would be 
free. 

' Shelley had hymned the dawn of liberty in 
Spain and Naples, in two odes, dictated by the 
warmest enthusiasm ; — he felt himself natu- 
rally impelled to decorate with poetry the 
uprise of the descendants of that people, whose 
works he regarded with deep admiration ; and 
to adopt the vaticinatory character in prophe- 
sying their success. Hellas was written in a 
moment of enthusiasm. It is curious to re- 
mark how well he overcomes the difficulty of 
forming a drama out of such scant materials. 
His prophecies, indeed, came true in their 
general, not their particular purport. He did 
not foresee the death of Lord Londonderry, 
•which was to be the epoch of a change in Eng- 
lish politics, particularly as regarded foreign 
affairs ; nor that the navy of his country would 
fight for instead of against the Greeks : and 
by the battle of Navarino secure their enfran- 
chisement from the Turks. Almost against 
reason, as it appeared to him, he resolved to 
believe that Greece would prove triumphant : 
and in this spirit, auguring ultimate good, yet 



grieving over the vicissitudes to be endured in 
the interval, he composed his drama. . . . 

' Hellas was among the last of his composi- 
tions, and is among the most beautiful. The 
choruses are singularly imaginative, and melo- 
dious in their versification. There are some 
stanzas that beautifully exemplify Shelley's 
peculiar style. . . . 

' The conclusion of the last chorus is among 
the most beautiful of his lyrics ; the imagery 
is distinct and majestic ; the prophecy, such as 
poets love to dwell upon, the regeneration of 
mankind — and that regeneration reflecting 
back splendor on the foregone time, from 
which it inherits so nnieh of intellectual wealth, 
and memory of past virtuous deeds, as must 
render the possession of happiness and peace 
of tenfold value.' 

To 

HIS EXCELLENCY 

PRINCE ALEXANDER MAVROCORDATO 

LATE SECRETARY FOR FOREIGN AFFAHIS 
TO THE HOSPODAR OF WALLACHIA 

THE DRAMA OF HELLAS 

IS INSCRIBED 

AS AN IMPERFECT TOKEN 

OP THE ADMIRATION, SYMPATHY, AND FRIENDSHIP 

OP 

THE AUTHOR 
Pisa, November 1, 1821. 

PREFACE 

The poem of Hellas, written at the sugges- 
tion of the events of the moment, is a mere 
improvise, and derives its interest (should it 
be found to possess any) solely from the in- 
tense sympathy which the Author feels with 
the cause he would celebrate. 

The subject in its present state is insuscep- 
tible of being treated otherwise than lyrically, 
and if I have called this poem a drama from 
the circumstance of its being composed in dia- 
logue, the license is not greater than that which 
has been assuntied by other poets who have 
called their productions epics, only because 
they have been divided into twelve or twenty- 
four books. 

The PerscB of ^schylus afforded me the first 
model of my conception, although the decision 
of the glorious contest now waging in Greece 
being yet suspended forbids a catastrophe 
parallel to the return of Xerxes and the deso- 
lation of the Persians. I have, therefore, 
contented myself with exhibiting a series of 
Ivric pictures and with having wrought upon 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 



319 



the curtain of futurity, which falls upon the 
Hnfinished scene, such figures of indistinct and 
visionary delineation as suggest the final tri- 
umph of the Greek cause as a portion of the 
cause of civilization and social improvement. 

The drama (if drama it must be called) is, 
however, so inartificial that I doubt whether, 
if recited on the Thespian wagon to an Athe- 
nian village at the Diouysiaca, it would have 
obtained the prize of the goat. I shall bear 
with equanimity any punishment greater than 
the loss of such a reward which the Aristarchi 
of the hour may think fit to inflict. 

The only goat-song which I have yet at- 
tempted has, I confess, in spite of the unfavor- 
able nature of the subject, received a greater 
and a more valuable portion of applause than 
I expected or than it deserved. 

Common fame is the only authority which I 
can allege for the details which form the basis 
of the poem, and I must trespass upon the for- 
giveness of my readers for the display of 
newspaper erudition to which I have been re- 
duced. Undoubtedly, until the conclusion of 
the war, it will be impossible to obtain an ac- 
count of it sufficiently authentic for historical 
materials ; but poets have their privilege, and 
it is unquestionable that actions of the most 
exalted courage have been performed by the 
Greeks — that they have gained more than 
one naval victory, and that their defeat in 
Wallachia was signalized by circumstances of 
heroism more glorious even than victory. 

The apathy of the rulers of the civilized 
world to the astonishing circumstance of the 
descendants of that nation to which they owe 
their civilization — rising as it were from the 
ashes of their ruin — is something perfectly 
inexplicable to a mere spectator of the shows 
of this mortal scene. We are all Greeks. Our 
laws, our literature, our religion, our arts, 
have their root in Greece. But for Greece, 
Rome, the instructor, the conqueror, or the 
metropolis of our ancestors, would have spread 
no illumination with her arms, and we might 
still have been savages and idolaters ; or, what 
is worse, might have arrived at such a stagnant 
and miserable state of social institution as 
China and Japan possess. 

The human form and the human mind at- 
tained to a perfection in Greece which has 
impressed its image on those faultless produc- 
tions whose very fragments are the despair of 
modern art, and has propagated impulses 
which cannot cease, through a thousand chan- 
nels of manifest or imperceptible operation, to 
ennoble and delight mankind until the ex- 
tinction of the race. 

The modern Greek is the descendant of those 
glorious beings whom the imagination almost 
refvwes to figure to itself as belonging to our 



kind, and he inherits much of their sensibility, 
their rapidity of conception, their enthusiasm 
and their courage. If in many instances he is 
degraded by moral and political slavery to the 
practice of the basest vices it engenders — and 
that below the level of ordinary degradation 

— let us reflect that the corruption of the best 
produces the worst, and that habits which sub- 
sist only in relation to a peculiar state of social 
institution may be expected to cease so soon 
as that relation is dissolved. In fact, the 
Greeks, since the admirable novel of Anasta- 
sius could have been a faithful picture of their 
manners, have undergone most important 
changes ; the flower of their youth returning to 
their country from the universities of Italy, 
Germany and France have communicated to 
their fellow-citizens the latest results of that 
social perfection of which their ancestors were 
the original source. The university of Chios 
contained before the breaking out of the revo- 
lution eight hundred students, and among them 
several Germans and Americans. The muni- 
ficence and energy of many of the Greek 
princes and merchants, directed to the renova- 
tion of their country with a spirit and a wis- 
dom which has few examples, is above all 
praise. 

The English permit their own oppressors to 
act according to their natural sympathy with 
the Turkish tyrant and to brand upon their 
name the indelible blot of an alliance with the 
enemies of domestic happiness, of Christianity 
and civilization. 

Russia desires to possess, not to liberate 
Greece ; and is contented to see the Turks, its 
natural enemies, and the Greeks, its intended 
slaves, enfeeble each other until one or both 
fall into its net. The wise and generous policy 
of England would have consisted in establish- 
ing the independence of Greece and in main- 
taining it both against Russia and the Turk ; 

— but when was the oppressor generous or 
just ? 

Should the English people ever become free, 
they will reflect upon the part which those 
who presume to represent their will have played 
in the great drama of the revival of liberty, 
with feelings which it would become them to 
anticipate. This is the age of the war of the 
oppressed against the oppressors, and every one 
of those ringleaders of the privileged gangs of 
murderers and swindlers, called sovereigns, 
look to each other for aid against the common 
enemy, and suspend their mutual jealousies in 
the presence of a mightier fear. Of this holy 
alliance all the despots of the earth are virtual 
members. But a new race has arisen through- 
out Europe, nursed in the abhorrence of the 
opinions which are its chains, and she will con- 
tinue to produce fresh generations to accom- 



3^0 



HELLAS 



plish that destiny which tyrants foresee and 
dread. 

The Spanish Peninsula is already free. 
France is tranquil in the enjoyment of a par- 
tial exemption from the abuses which its un- 
natural and feeble government are vainly at- 
tempting- to revive. The seed of blood and 
misery has been sown in Italy, and a more vig- 
orous race is arising to go forth to the harvest. 
The world waits only the news of a revolution 
of Germany to see the tyrants who have pinna- 

HELLAS 

DRAMATIS PERSONiE 

Thk Prologue : — 

Herald of Eternitt. 

Christ. 

Satan. 

Mahomet. 

Chorus. 

The Drama : — 

Mahmud. 

Hassan. 

Daood. 

Ahasuerus, a Jew. 

Phantom op Mahomet the Second. 

Chorus op Greek Captive Women. 

Messengers, Slaves and Attendants. 

Scene. Constantinople. 
Time. Sunset. 



PROLOGUE : A FRAGMENT 

HERALD OF ETERNITY 

It is the day when all the sons of God 
Wait in the roofless senate-house, whose 

floor 
Is Chaos, and the immovable abyss 
Frozen by His steadfast word to hyaline 

The shadow of God, and delegate 

Of that before whose breath the universe 

Is as a print of dew. 

Hierarehs and kings 
Who from your thrones pinnacled on the 

past 
Sway the reluctant present, ye who sit 
Pavilioned on the radiance or the gloom lo 
Of mortal thought, which like an exhala- 
tion 
Steaming from earth conceals the of 

heaven 
Which gave it birth, assemble here 

Before your Father's throne; the swift 

decree 
Yet hovers, and the fiery incarnation 



cled themselves on its supineness precipitated 
into the ruin from which they shall never arise. 
Well do these destroyers of mankind know 
their enemy, when they impute the insurrec- 
tion in Greece to the same spirit before which 
they tremble throughout the rest of Europe, 
and that enemy well knows the power and 
the cunning of its opponents and watches the 
moment of their approaching weakness and in- 
evitable division to wrest the bloody sceptres 
from their grasp. 

Is yet withheld, clothed in which it shall 

annul 
The fairest of those wandering isles that 

gem 
The sapphire space of interstellar air. 
That green and azure sphere, that earth 

enwrapped 20 

Less in the beauty of its tender light 
Than in an atmosphere of living spirit 
Which interpenetrating all the . . . 

it rolls from realm to realm 
And age to age, and in its ebb and flow 
Impels the generations 
To their appointed place, 
Whilst the high Arbiter 
Beholds the strife, and at the appointed 

time 
Sends his decrees veiled in eternal ... 30 

Within the circuit of this pendant orb 
There lies an antique region, on which fell 
The dews of thought in the world's golden 

dawn 
Earliest and most benign, and from it 

sprung 
Temples and cities and immortal forms 
And harmonies of wisdom and of song. 
And thoughts, and deeds worthy of thoughts 

so fair. 
And when the sun of its dominion failed. 
And when the winter of its glory came, 
The winds that stripped it bare blew on, 

and swept 40 

That dew into the utmost wildernesses 
In wandering clouds of sunny rain that 

thawed 
The unmaternal bosom of the North- 
Haste, sons of God, for ye beheld. 
Reluctant, or consenting, or astonished, 
The stern decrees go forth, which heaped 

on Greece 
Ruin and degradation and despair. 
A fourth now waits : assemble, sons of 

God, 



PROLOGUE 



321 



To speed, or to prevent, or to suspend, 
If, as ye dream, such power be not with- 
held, 50 
The unaccomplished destiny. 



CHORUS 

The curtain of the Universe 

Is rent and shattered. 
The splendor-winged worlds disperse 

Like wild doves scattered. 

Space is roofless and bare. 
And in the midst a cloudy shrine, 

Dark amid thrones of light. 
In the blue glow of hyaline 
Golden worlds revolve and shine. 60 

In flight 

From every point of the Infinite, 
Like a thousand dawns on a single night, 
The splendors rise and spread; 
And through thunder and darkness dread 
Light and music are radiated, 
And, in their pavilioned chariots led 
By living wings high overhead. 

The giant Powers move, 69 

Gloomy or bright as the thrones they fill. 

A chaos of light and motion 
Upon that glassy ocean. 

The senate of the Gods is met. 
Each in his rank and station set; 

There is silence in the spaces — 
Lo ! Satan, Christ, and Mahomet 

Start from their places I 

CHRIST 

Almighty Father ! 
Low-kneeling at the feet of Destiny 

There are two fountains in which spirits 

weep 80 

When mortals err, Discord and Slavery 

named, 
And with their bitter dew two Destinies 
Filled each their irrevocable urns; the third, 
Fiercest and mightiest, mingled both, and 

added 
Chaos and Death, and slow Oblivion's lymph, 
And hate and terror, and the poisoned rain 

The Aurora of the nations. By this brow 
Whose pores wept tears of blood, by these 
wide wounds, 



By this imperial crown of agony, 
By infamy and solitude and death, 90 

For this I underwent, and by the pain 
Of pity for those who would for me 

The unremembered joy of a revenge. 
For this I felt — by Plato's sacred light. 
Of which my spirit was a burning morrow — 
By Greece and all she cannot cease to be, 
Her quenchless words, sparks of immortal 

truth, 
Stars of all night — her harmonies and 

forms. 
Echoes and shadows of what Love adores 
In thee, I do compel thee, send forth 

Fate, 100 

Thy irrevocable child: let her descend 
A seraph-winged victory [arrayed] 
In tempest of the omnipotence of God 
Which sweeps through all things. 
From hollow leagues, from Tyranny which 

arms 
Adverse miscreeds and emulous anarchies 
To stamp, as on a winged serpent's seed. 
Upon the name of Freedom; from the 

storm 
Of faction, which like earthquake shakes 

and sickens 
The solid heart of enterprise; from all no 
By which the holiest dreams of highest 

spirits 
Are stars beneath the dawn . . . 

She shall arise 
Victorious as the world arose from Chaos ! 
And as the Heavens and the Earth arrayed 
Their presence in the beauty and the light 
Of thy first smile, O Father, as they gather 
The spirit of thy love which paves for them 
Their path o'er the abyss, till every sphere 
Shall be one living Spirit, so shall Greece — 

SATAN 

Be as all things beneath the empyrean 12a 
Mine ! Art thou eyeless like old Destiny, 
Thou mockery-king, crowned with a wreath 

of thorns ? 
Whose sceptre is a reed, the broken reed 
Which pierces thee ! whose throne a chair 

of scorn; 
For seest thou not beneath this crystal floor 
The innumerable worlds of golden light 
Which are my empire, and the least of 

them 
which thou wonldst redeem from me 1 
Know'st thou not them my portion ? 



322 



HELLAS 



Or wouldst rekindle the strife ? 130 

Which our great Father then did arbitrate 
When he assigned to his competing sons 
Each his apportioned realm ? 

Thou Destiny, 
Thou who art mailed in the omnipotence 
Of Him who sends thee forth, whate'er 

thy task, 
Speed, spare not to accomplish, and be mine 
Thy trophies, whether Greece again become 
The fountain in the desert whence the 

earth 
Shall drink of freedom, which shall give it 

strength 
To suffer, or a gulf of hollow death 140 

To swallow all delight, all life, all hope. 
Go, thou Vicegerent of my will, no less 
Than of the Father's; but lest thou shouldst 

faint. 
The winged hounds, Famine and Pestilence, 
Shall wait on thee, the hundred-forked 

snake, 
Insatiate Superstition, still shall 
The earth behind thy steps, and War shall 

hover 
Above, and Fraud shall gape below, and 

Change 
Shall flit before thee on her dragon wings. 
Convulsing and consuming, and I add 150 
Three vials of the tears which demons weep 
When virtuous spirits through the gate of 

Death 
Pass triumphing over the thorns of life. 
Sceptres and crowns, mitres and swords and 

snares. 
Trampling in scorn, like Him and Socrates. 
The first is Anarchy; when Power and 

Pleasure, 
Glory and science and security, 
On Freedom hang like fruit on the green 

tree, 
Then pour it forth, and men shall gather 

ashes. 
The second Tyranny — 

CHRIST 

Obdurate spirit ! 

Thou seest but the Past in the To-come. 161 

Pride is thy error and thy punishment. 

Boast not thine empire, dream not that thy 
worlds 

Are more than furnace-sparks or rainbow- 
drops 

Before the Power that wields and kindles 
them. 



True greatness asks not space, true excel- 
lence 
Lives in the Spirit of all things that live, 
Which lends it to the worlds thou callest 
thine. 



MAHOMET 

Haste thou and fill the waning crescent 
With beams as keen as those which pierced 

the shadow 170 

Of Christian night rolled back upon the 

West 
When the orient moon of Islam rode in 

triumph 
From Tmolus to the Acroceraunian snow. 

Wake, thou Word 
Of God, and from the throne of Destiny 
Even to the utmost limit of thy way 
May Triumph 

Be thou a curse on them whose creed 
Divides and multiplies the most high God. 



HELLAS 

Scene — A Terrace, on the Seraglio. Mahmuo 
i sleeping) ; an Indian Slave sitting beside his 
Couch. 

chorus of greek captive women 
We strew these opiate flowers 

On thy restless pillow; 
They were stripped from orient bowers, 
By the Indian billow. 
Be thy sleep 
Calm and deep, 
Like theirs who fell — not ours who weep ! 

INDIAN 

Away, unlovely dreams ! 

Away, false shapes of sleep ! 
Be his, as Heaven seems, i« 

Clear, and bright, and deep ! 
Soft as love, and calm as death, 
Sweet as a summer night without a breath. 

CHORUS 

Sleep, sleep ! our song is laden 

With the soul of slumber; 
It was sung by a Samian maiden, 



HELLAS 



323 



Whose lover was of the number 
Who now keep 
That calm sleep 
Whence none may wake, where none shall 
weep. 20 

INDIAN 

I touch thy temples pale ! 

I breathe my soul on thee ! 
And could my prayers avail, 
All my joy should be 
Dead, and I would live to weep. 
So thou mightst win one hour of quiet 
sleep. 

CHORUS 

Breathe low, low, 
The spell of the mighty mistress now ! 
When Conscience lulls her sated snake. 
And Tyrants sleep, let Freedom wake. 30 
Breathe low — low, 
The words, which, like secret fire, shall 

flow 
Through the veins of the frozen earth — 
low, low ! 

SEMICHORUS I 

Life may change, but it may fly not; 
Hope may vanish, but can die not; 
Truth be veiled, but still it burnetii; 
Love repulsed, — but it returneth. 

SEMICHORUS U 

Yet were life a charnel, where 
Hope lay coffined with Despair; 
Yet were truth a sacred lie. 
Love were lust — 

SEMICHORUS I 

If Liberty 
Lent not life its soul of light, 
Hope its iris of delight. 
Truth its prophet's robe to wear. 
Love its power to give and bear. 

CHORUS 

In the great morning of the world. 
The spirit of God with might unfurled 
The flag of Freedom over Chaos, 

And all its banded anarchs fled, 
Like vultures frighted from Imaus 50 

Before an earthquake's tread. 
So from Time's tempestuous dawn 
Freedom's splendor burst and shone; 
Thermopylae and Marathon 



40 



Caught, like mountains beacon-lighted, 
The springing Fire; the winged 
glory 
On Philippi half-alighted. 

Like an eagle on a promontory. 
Its unwearied wings could fan 
The quenchless ashes of Milan. 60 

From age to age, from man to man 
It lived; and lit from land to land 
Florence, Albion, Switzerland. 

Then night fell; and, as from night, 
Reassuming fiery flight, 
From the West swift Freedom came, 
Against the course of heaven and 
doom, 
A second sun arrayed in flame. 
To burn, to kindle, to illume. 
From far Atlantis its young beams 70 
Chased the shadows and the dreams. 
France, with all her sanguine steams. 
Hid, but quenched it not; again 
Through clouds its shafts of glory rain 
From utmost Germany to Spain. 

As an eagle fed with morning 

Scorns the embattled tempest's warning. 

When she seeks her aerie hanging 

In the mountain-cedar's hair. 
And her brood expect the clanging 80 

Of her wings through the wild air. 
Sick with famine ; — Freedom so 
To what of Greece remaineth now 
Returns; her hoary ruins glow 
Like orient mountains lost in day; 

Beneath the safety of her wings 
Her renovated nurslings play, 

And in the naked lio^htninsfs 
Of truth they purge their dazzled eyes. 
Let Freedom leave, where'er she flies, ^m 
A desert, or a paradise; 

Let the beautiful and the brave 

Share her glory, or a grave. 

SEMICHORUS I 

With the gifts of gladness 
Greece did thy cradle strew; 

SEMICHORUS II 

With the tears of sadness 

Greece did thy shroud bedew; 

SEMICHORUS I 

With an orphan's affection 

She followed thy bier through time; 



324 



HELLAS 



SEMICHORUS II 

And at thy resurrection loo 

Reappeareth, like thou, suhlime ! 

SEMICHORUS I 

If Heaven should resume thee, 
To Heaven shall her spirit ascend; 

SEMICHORUS n 

If Hell should entomb thee. 

To Hell shall her high hearts bend. 

SEMICHORUS I 

If Annihilation — 

SEMICHORUS II 

Dust let her glories be; 
And a name and a nation 

Be forgotten. Freedom, with thee ! 

INDIAN 

His brow grows darker — breathe not — 
move not ! no 

He starts — he shudders; ye that love not. 
With your panting loud and fast 
Have awakened him at last. 

MAHMUD [starting from his sleep) 

Man the Seraglio-guard ! make fast the 
gate. 

What ! from a cannonade of three short 
hours ? 

'Tis false ! that breach towards the Bos- 
phorus 

Cannot be practicable yet — who stirs ? 

Stand to the match, that, when the foe pre- 
vails. 

One spark may mix in reconciling ruin 

The conqueror and the conquered ! Heave 
the tower 120 

Into the gap — wrench off the roof o 

Enter Hassan 

Ha ! what ! 
The truth of day lightens upon my dream, 
And I am Mahmud still. 

HASSAN 

Your Sublime Highness 
Is strangely moved. 

MAHMUD 

The times do cast strange shadows 
On those who watch and who must rule 
their course, 



Lest they, being first in pei'il as in glory. 
Be whelmed in the fierce ebb: — and these 

are of them. 
Thrice has a gloomy vision hunted me 
As thus from sleep into the troubled day; 
It shakes me as the tempest shakes the 

sea, 130 

Leaving no figure upon memory's glass. 
Would that — no matter. Thou didst say 

thou knewest 
A Jew, whose spirit is a chronicle 
Of strange and secret and forgotten things. 
I bade thee summon him; 'tis said his tribe 
Dream, and are wise interpreters of dreams. 

HASSAN 

The Jew of whom I spake is old, so old 
He seems to have outlived a world's decay; 
The hoary mountains and the wrinkled 

ocean 
Seem younger still than he; his hair and 

beard 140 

Are whiter than the tempest-sifted snow; 
His cold pale limbs and pulseless arteries 
Are like the fibres of a cloud instinct 
With light, and to the soul that quickens 

them 
Are as the atoms of the mountain-drift 
To the winter wind; but from his eye 

looks forth 
A life of unconsum^d thought which pierces 
The present, and the past, and the to- 
come. 
Some say that this is he whom the great 

prophet 
Jesus, the son of Joseph, for his mockery, 
Mocked with the curse of immortality. 151 
Some feign that he is Enoch; others dream 
He was pre-adamite, and has survived 
Cycles of generation and of ruin. 
The sage, in truth, by dreadful abstinence, 
And conquering penance of the mutinous 

flesh, 
Deep contemplation, and unwearied study, 
In years outstretched beyond the date of 

man, 
May have attained to sovereignty and sci- 
ence 
Over those strong and secret things and 

thoughts 160 

Which others fear and know not. 



MAHMUD 



I would talk 



With this old Jew. 



HELLAS 



325 



HASSAN 

Thy will is even now 
Made known to him, where he dwells in a 

sea-cavern 
'Mid the Demonesi, less accessible 
Than thou or God ! He who would ques- 
tion him 
Must sail alone at sunset, where the stream 
Of Ocean sleeps around those foamless 

isles, 
When the young moon is westering as now, 
And evening airs wander upon the wave; 
And when the pines of that bee-pasturing 
isle, 170 

Green Ere binthus, quench the fiery shadow 
Of its gilt prow within the sapphire water, 
Then must the lonely helmsman cry aloud, 
Ahasuerus ! and the caverns round 
Will answer, Ahasuerus ! If his prayer 
Be granted, a faint meteor will arise. 
Lighting him over Marmora, and a wind 
Will rush out of the sighing pine forest. 
And with the wind a storm of harmony 
Unutterably sweet, and pilot him 180 

Through the soft twilight to the Bos- 

phorus: 
Thence, at the hour and place and circum- 
stance 
Fit for the matter of their conference. 
The Jew appears. Few dare, and few who 

dare 
Win the desired communion — but that 

shout 
Bodes — 

[A shout within. 

MAHMUD 

Evil, doubtless; like all human sounds. 
Let me converse with spirits. 



HASSAN 



That shout again. 



MAHMUD 

This Jew whom thou hast summoned — 



HASSAN 



MAHMUD 



Will be here — 



When the omnipotent hour, to which are 

yoked 
He, I, and all things, shall compel — 

enough. 190 



Silence those mutineers — that drunken 

crew 
That crowd about the pilot in the storm. 
Ay ! strike the foremost shorter by a head ! 
They weary me, and I have need of rest. 
Kings are like stars — they rise and set, 

they have 
The worship of the world, but no repose. 

[Exeunt severally, 

CHORUS 

Worlds on worlds are rolling ever 

From creation to decay. 
Like the bubbles on a river. 

Sparkling, bursting, borne away. 2cx) 
But they are still immortal 
Who, through birth's orient portal 
And death's dark chasm hurrying to and 
fro, 
Clothe their unceasing flight 
In the brief dust and light 
Gathered around their chariots as they 

go; 

New shapes they still may weave, 
New gods, new laws receive. 
Bright or dim are they, as the robes they 
last 
On Death's bare ribs had cast. 210 

A power from the unknown God, 

A Promethean conqueror, came ; 
Like a triumphal path he trod 
The thorns of death and shame. 
A mortal shape to him 
Was like the vapor dim 
Which the orient planet animates with 
light; 
Hell, Sin and Slavery came, 
Like bloodhounds mild and tame, 
Nor preyed until their lord had taken 
flight ; 220 

The moon of Mahomet 
Arose, and it shall set; 
While blazoned as on heaven's immortal 
noon 
The cross leads generations on. 

Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep 

From one, whose dreams are Paradise, 
Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to 
weep. 
And day peers forth with her blank 

eyes; 
So fleet, so faint, so fair, 
The Powers of earth and air 230 



326 



HELLAS 



Fled from the folding star of Bethlehem ; 

Apollo, Pan, and Love, 

And even Olympian Jove, 
Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared 
on them; 

Our hills and seas and streams, 

Dispeopled of their dreams, 
Their waters turned to blood, their dew to 
tears. 

Wailed for the golden years. 

Enter Mahmud, Hassan, Daood, and others 

MAHMUD 

More gold ? our ancestors bought gold with 
victory, 239 

And shall I sell it for defeat ? 



Clamor for pay, 



DAOOD 



MAHMUD 



The Janizars 



Go, bid them pay themselves 

With Christian blood ! Are there no Gre- 
cian virgins 

Whose shrieks and spasms and tears they 
may enjoy ? 

No infidel children to impale on spears ? 

No hoary priests after that Patriarch 

Who bent the curse against his country's 
heart. 

Which clove his own at last ? Go ! bid 
them kill; 

Blood is the seed of gold. 

DAOOD 

It has been sown, 
And yet the harvest to the sickle-men 249 
Is as a grain to each. 

MAHMUD 

Then take this signet. 
Unlock the seventh chamber, in which lie 
The treasures of victorious Solyman, 
An empire's spoil stored for a day of ruin. 
O spirit of my sires, is it not come ? 
The prey-birds and the wolves are gorged 

and sleep; 
But these, who spread their feast on the 

red earth. 
Hunger for gold, which fills not. — See 

them fed; 
Then lead them to the rivers of fresh death. 

[Exit Daood. 



Oh, miserable dawn, after a night 

More glorious than the day which it 

usurped ! 260 

O faith in God ! O power on earth ! O 

word 
Of the great Prophet, whose o'ershadowing 

wings 
Darkened the thrones and idols of the 

West, 
Now bright ! — for thy sake cursed be the 

hour. 
Even as a father by an evil child, 
When the orient moon of Islam rolled in 

triumph 
From Caucasus to white Ceraunia ! 
Ruin above, and anarchy below; 
Terror without, and treachery within; 
The chalice of destruction full, and all 270 
Thirsting to drink; and who among us 

dares 
To dash it from his lips ? and where is 

Hope? 

HASSAN 

The lamp of our dominion still rides high ; 

One God is God — Mahomet is his Pro- 
phet. 

Four hundred thousand Moslems, from the 
limits 

Of utmost Asia, irresistibly 

Throng, like full clouds at the Sirocco's cry, 

But not like them to weep their strength 
in tears; 

They bear destroying lightning, and their 
step 

Wakes earthquake, to consume and over- 
whelm, 280 

And reign in ruin. Phrygian Olympus, 

Tmolus, and Latmos, and Mycale, roughen 

With horrent arms; and lofty ships, even 
now. 

Like vapors anchored to a mountain's edge, 

Freighted with fire and whirlwind, wait at 
Scala 

The convoy of the ever- veering wind. 

Samos is drunk with blood ; the Greek has 
paid 

Brief victory with swift loss and long de- 
spair. 

The false Moldavian serfs fled fast and far 

When the fierce shout of Allah-ilia- Allah 

Rose like the war-cry of the northern 
wind, 291 

Which kills the sluggish clouds, and leaves 
a flock 



HELLAS 



327 



Of wild swans struggling with the naked 

storm. 
So were the lost Greeks on the Danube's 

day ! 
If night is mute, yet the returning sun 
Kindles the voices of the morning birds; 
Nor at thy bidding less exultingly 
Than birds rejoicing in the golden day 
The Anarchies of Africa unleash 
Their tempest-winged cities of the sea, 300 
To speak in thunder to the rebel world. 
Like sulphurous clouds half-shattered by 

the storm, 
They sweep the pale ^gean, while the 

Queen 
Of Ocean, bound upon her island throne, 
Far in the West, sits mourning that her 

sons, 
Who frown on Freedom, spare a smile for 

thee. 
Russia still hovers, as an eagle might 
Within a cloud, near which a kite and 

crane 
Hang tangled in inextricable fight. 
To stoop upon the victor; for she fears 310 
The name of Freedom, even as she hates 

thine. 
But recreant Austria loves thee as the 

Grave 
Loves Pestilence, and her slow dogs of war. 
Fleshed with the chase, come up from 

Italy, 
And howl upon their limits ; for they see 
The panther. Freedom, fled to her old 

cover. 
Amid seas and mountains, and a mightier 

brood 
Crouch round. What Anarch wears a 

crown or mitre. 
Or bears the sword, or grasps the key of 

gold, 
Whose friends are not thy friends, whose 

foes thy foes ? 320 

Our arsenals and our armories are full; 
Our forts defy assault; ten thousand can- 
non 
Lie ranged upon the beach, and hour by 

hour 
Their earth-convulsing wheels affright the 

city; 
The galloping of fiery steeds makes pale 
The Christian merchant; and the yellow 

Jew 
Hides his hoard deeper in the faithless 

earth. 



Like clouds, and like the shadows of the 

clouds, 
Over the hills of Anatolia, 
Swift in wide troops the Tartar chivalry 330 
Sweep; the far-flashing of their starrj 

lances 
Reverberates the dying light of day. 
We have one God, one King, one Hope, 

one Law; 
But many-headed Insurrection stands 
Divided in itself, and soon must fall. 

MAHMUD 

Proud words, when deeds come short, are 

seasonable. 
Look, Hassan, on yon crescent moon, em- 
blazoned 
Upon that shattered flag of fiery cloud 
Which leads the rear of the departing 

day. 
Wan emblem of an empire fading now ^40 
See how it trembles in the blood-red air. 
And like a mighty lamp whose oil is spent, 
Shrinks on the horizon's edge, while, from 

above. 
One star with insolent and victorious light. 
Hovers above its fall, and with keen beams 
Like arrows through a fainting antelope, 
Strikes its weak form to death. 



Renews itself — 



HASSAN 

Even as that moon 

MAHMUD 

Shall we be not renewed! 
Far other bark than ours were needed now 
To stem the torrent of descending time; 359 
The spirit that lifts the slave before his 

lord 
Stalks through the capitals of arm^d kings, 
And spreads his ensign in the wilderness; 
Exults in chains; and, when the rebel 

falls, 
Cries like the blood of Abel from the dust; 
And the inheritors of the earth, like beasts 
When earthquake is unleashed, with idiot 

fear 
Cower in their kingly dens — as I do now. 
What were Defeat, when Victory must 

appall ? 
Or Danger, when Security looks pale ? 360 
How said the messenger, who from the fort 
Islanded in the Danube saw the battle 
Of Bucharest? that — 



328 



HELLAS 



HASSAN 

Ibrahim's scimitar 
Drew with its gleam swift victory from 

heaven 
To burn before him in the night of battle — 
A light and a destruction. 



MAHMUD 



Was ours; but how ? 



Ay ! the day 



HASSAN 



The light Wallachians, 
The Arnaut, Servian, and Albanian allies, 
Fled from the glance of our artillery 
Almost before the thunder-stone alit; 370 
One half the Grecian army made a bridge 
Of safe and slow retreat with Moslem 

dead; 
The other — 

MAHMUD 

Speak — tremble not. 

HASSAN 

Islanded 

By victor myriads formed in hollow square 

With rough and steadfast front, and thrice 
flung back 

The deluge of our foaming cavalry; 

Thrice their keen wedge of battle pierced 
our lines. 

Our baffled army trembled like one man 

Before a host, and gave them space; but 
soon 

From the surrounding hills the batteries 
blazed, 380 

Kneading them down with fire and iron 
rain. 

Yet none approached; till, like a field of 
corn 

Under the hook of the swart sickle-man, 

The band, entrenched in mounds of Turk- 
ish dead, 
Tew weak and few. Then said the Pacha, 
* Slaves, 

Render yourselves — they have abandoned 
you — 

What hope of refuge, or retreat, or aid ? 

We grant your lives.' — * Grant that which 
is thine own ! ' 

Cried one, and fell upon his sword and 
died ! 

Another — * God, and man, and hope aban- 
don me; 390 



But I to them and to myself remain 
Constant;' he bowed his head and his 

heart burst. 
A third exclaimed, ' There is a refuge, 

tyrant. 
Where thou darest not pursue; and canst 

not harm, 
Shouldst thou pursue; there we shall meet 

again.' 
Then held his breath, and, after a brief ' 

spasm, 
The indignant spirit cast its mortal garment 
Among the slain — dead earth upon the 

earth ! 
So these survivors, each by different ways, 
Some strange, all sudden, none dishonor- 
able, 400 
Met in triumphant death; and, when our 

army 
Closed in, while yet wonder, and awe, and 

shame 
Held back the base hyenas of the battle 
That feed upon the dead and fly the living, 
One rose out of the chaos of the slain; 
And if it were a corpse which some dread 

spirit 
Of the old saviors of the land we rule 
Had lifted in its anger, wandering by ; 
Or if there burned within the dying man 
Unquenchable disdain of death, and faith 
Creating what it feigned, — I cannot tell; 
But he cried, ' Phantoms of the free, we 

come ! 412 

Armies of the Eternal, ye who strike 
To dust the citadels of sanguine kings, 
And shake the souls throned on their stony 

hearts, 
And thaw their frost-work diadems like 

dew; 
O ye who float around this clime, and weave 
The garment of the glory which it wears, 
Whose fame, though earth betray the dust 

it clasped. 
Lies sepulchred in monumental thought; 4^0 
Progenitors of all that yet is great. 
Ascribe to your bright senate, oh, accept 
In your high ministrations, us, your sons — 
Us first, and the more glorious yet to 

come ! 
And ye, weak conquerors ! giants, who look 

pale 
When the crushed worm rebels beneath 

your tread — 
The vultures, and the dogs, your pensioners 

tame, 



HELLAS 



329 



Are overgorged; but, like oppressors, still 
They crave the relic of Destruction's feast. 
The exhalations and the thirsty winds 430 
Are sick with blood; the dew is foul with 

death ; 
Heaven's light is quenched in slaughter; 

thus where'er 
Upon your camps, cities, or towers, or 

fleets, 
The obscene birds the reeking remnants 

cast 
Of these dead limbs, — upon your streams 

and mountains, 
Upon your fields, your gardens, and your 

housetops, — 
Where'er the winds shall creep, or the 

clouds fly. 
Or the dews fall, or the angry sun look 

down 
With poisoned light — Famine, and Pesti- 
lence, 439 
And Panic, shall wage war upon our side ! 
Nature from all her boundaries is moved 
Against ye; Time has found ye light as 

foam. 
The Earth rebels ; and Good and Evil stake 
Their empire o'er the unborn world of men 
On this one cast; but ere the die be thrown. 
The renovated genius of our race. 
Proud umpire of the impious game, de- 
scends, 
A seraph-winged Victory, bestriding 
The tempest of the Omnipotence of God, 
Which sweeps all things to their appointed 

doom, 450 

And you to oblivion ! ' — More he would 

have said, 
But — 

MAHMUD 

Died — as thou shouldst ere thy lips had 
painted 
Their ruin in the hues of our success. 
A rebel's crime, gilt with a rebel's tongue ! 
Your heart is Greek, Hassan. 

HASSAN 

It may be so: 
A spirit not my own wrenched me within. 
And I have spoken words I fear and hate ; 
Yet would I die for — 

MAHMUD 

Live ! oh, live ! outlive 
Me and this sinking empire. But the 
fleet — 



HASSAN 

Alas ! 

MAHMUD 

The fleet which, like a flock of clouds 
Chased by the wind, flies the insurgent 

banner ! 461 

Our winged castles from their merchant 

ships ! 
Our myriads before their weak pirate 

bands ! 
Our arms before their chains ! our years of 

empire 
Before their centuries of servile fear ! 
Death is awake ! Repulse is on the wa- 
ters ; 
They own no more the thunder-bearing 

banner 
Of Mahmud, but, like hounds of a base 

breed. 
Gorge from a stranger's hand, and rend 

their master. 

HASSAN 

Latmos, and Ampelos, and Phanae, saw 470 
The wreck — 

MAHMUD 

The caves of the Icarian isles 
Told each to the other in loud mockery. 
And with the tongue as of a thousand 

echoes. 
First of the sea-convulsing fight — and 

then — 
Thou darest to speak — senseless are the 

mountains; 
Interpret thou their voice ! 

HASSAN 

My presence bore 
A part in that day's shame. The Grecian 

fleet 
Bore down at daybreak from the north, and 

hung 
As multitudinous on the ocean line 
As cranes upon the cloudless Thracian 

wind. 480 

Our squadron, convoying ten thousand 

men. 
Was stretching towards Nauplia when the 

battle 
Was kindled. 

First through the hail of our artillery 
The agile Hydriote barks with press of sail 
Dashed; ship to ship, cannon to canno% 

man 



330 



HELLAS 



To man, were grappled in the embrace of 

war, 
Inextricable but by death or victory. 
The tempest of the raging fight convulsed 
To its crystalline depths that stainless sea, 
And shook heaven's roof of golden morn- 
ing clouds 491 
Poised on an hundred azure mountain isles. 
In the brief trances of the artillery 
One cry from the destroyed and the de- 
stroyer 
Rose, and a cloud of desolation wrapped 
The unforeseen event, till the north wind 
Sprung from the sea, lifting the heavy veil 
Of battle-smoke — then victory — victory ! 
For, as we thought, three frigates from 

Algiers 
Bore down from Naxos to our aid, but soon 
The abhorred cross glimmered behind, be- 
fore, SOI 
Among, around us; and that fatal sign 
Dried with its beams the strength in Mos- 
lem hearts. 
As the sun drinks the dew. — What more ? 

We fled ! 
Our noonday path over the sanguine foam 
Was beaconed — and the glare struck the 

sun pale — 
By our consuming transports; the fierce 

light 
Made all the shadows of our sails blood- 
red. 
And every countenance blank. Some ships 

lay feeding 
The ravening fire even to the water's level: 
Some were blown up; some, settling heav- 
ily, 5" 
Sunk; and the shrieks of our companions 

died 
Upon the wind that bore us fast and far, 
Even after they were dead. Nine thousand 

perished ! 
We met the vultures legioned in the air. 
Stemming the torrent of the tainted wind; 
They, screaming from their cloudy moun- 
tain peaks. 
Stooped through the sulphurous battle- 
smoke, and perched 
Each on the weltering carcass that we 

loved. 
Like its ill angel or its damned soul, 520 
Riding upon the bosom of the sea. 
We saw the dog-fish hastening to their 

feast. 
Joy waked the voiceless people of the sea, 



And ravening Famine left his ocean-cave 
To dwell with War, with us, and with De« 

spair. 
We met night three hours to the west of 

Patmos, 
And with night, tempest — 

MAHMUD 

Cease ! 
Enter a Messenger 

MESSENGER 

Your Sublime Highness, 
That Christian hound, the Muscovite am- 
bassador. 
Has left the city. If the rebel fleet 
Had anchored in the port, had victory 53c 
Crowned the Greek legions in the Hippo- 
drome, 
Panic were tamer. Obedience and Mutiny, 
Like giants in contention planet-struck. 
Stand gazing on each other. There is peace 
In Stamboul. 

MAHMUD 

Is the grave not calmer still ? 
Its ruins shall be mine. 

HASSAN 

Fear not the Russian ; 

The tiger leagues not with the stag at bay 

Against the hunter. Cunning, base, and 
cruel. 

He crouches, watching till the spoil be won, 

And must be paid for his reserve in blood. 

After the war is fought, yield the sleek 
Russian 541 

That which thou canst not keep, his de- 
served portion 

Of blood, which shall not flow through 
streets and fields. 

Rivers and seas, like that which we may 
win, 

But stagnate in the veins of Christian 
slaves ! 

Enter Second Messenger 

SECOND MESSENGER 

Nauplia, Tripolizza, Mothon, Athens, 
Navarin, Artas, Monembasia, 
Corinth and Thebes, are carried by as- 
sault; 
And every Islamite who made his dogs 
Fat with the flesh of Galilean slaves 550 



HELLAS 



331 



Passed at the edge of the sword; the lust 

of blood, 
Which made our warriors drunk, is 

quenched in death; 
But like a fiery plague breaks out anew 
In deeds which make the Christian cause 

look pale 
In its own light. The garrison of Patras 
Has store but for ten days, nor is there 

hope 
But from the Briton; at once slave and 

tyrant, 
His wishes still are weaker than his fears. 
Or he would sell what faith may yet re- 
main 
From the oaths broke in Genoa and in 

Norway; 560 

And if you buy him not, your treasury 
Is empty even of promises — his own coin. 
The freedman of a western poet chief 
Holds Attica with seven thousand rebels, 
And has beat back the Pacha of Negropont; 
The aged Ali sits in Yanina, 
A crownless metaphor of empire; 
His name, that shadow of his withered 

might, 
Holds our besieging army like a spell 
In prey to famine, pest, and mutiny; 570 
He, bastioned in his citadel, looks forth 
Joyless upon the sapphire lake that mirrors 
The ruins of the city where he reigned. 
Childless and sceptreless. The Greek has 

reaped 
The costly harvest his own blood matured. 
Not the sower, Ali — who has bought a 

truce 
From Ypsilanti, with ten camel-loads 
Of Indian gold. 

Enter a Third Messenger 

MAHMUD 

What more ? 

THIRD MESSENGER 

The Christian tribes 
Of Lebanon and the Syrian wilderness 
Are in revolt; Damascus, Hems, Aleppo, 580 
Tremble; the Arab menaces Medina; 
The ^thiop has entrenched himself in Sen- 

naar. 
And keeps the Egyptian rebel well em- 
ployed, 
Who denies homage, claims investiture 
As price of tardy aid. Persia demands 



The cities on the Tigris, and the Georgians 
Refuse their living tribute. Crete and 

Cyprus, 
Like mountain-twins that from each other's 

veins 
Catch the volcano fire and earthquake 

spasm, 
Shake in the general fever. Through the 

city, 59 

Like birds before a storm, the Santon 

shriek, 
And prophesyings horrible and new 
Are heard among the crowd; that sea ot 

men 
Sleeps on the wrecks it made, breathless 

and still. 
A Dervise, learned in the Koran, preaches 
That it is written how the sins of Islam 
Must raise up a destroyer even now. 
The Greeks expect a Saviour from the west. 
Who shall not come, men say, in clouds 

and glory. 
But in the Omnipresence of that Spirit 600 
In which all live and are. Ominous signs 
Are blazoned broadly on the noonday sky; 
One saw a red cross stamped upon the 

sun; 
It has rained blood; and monstrous births 

declare 
The secret wrath of Nature and her Lord. 
The army encamped upon the Cydaris 
Was roused last night by the alarm of bat- 
tle. 
And saw two hosts conflicting in the air, — 
The shadows doubtless of the unborn time 
Cast on the mirror of the night. While 

yet 610 

The fight hung balanced, there arose a 

storm 
Which swept the phantoms from among 

the stars. 
At the third watch the Spirit of the Plague 
Was heard abroad flapping among the 

tents; 
Those who relieved watch found the senti- 
nels dead. 
The last news from the camp is that a 

thousand 
Have sickened, and — 

Enter a Fourth Messenger 

MAHMUD 

And thou, pale ghost, dim shado\f 
Of some untimely rumor, speak ! 



33* 



HELLAS 



FOUKTH MESSENGER 

One comes 

Fainting with toil, covered with foam and 
blood; 

He stood, he says, on Chelonites' 620 

Promontory, which o'erlooks the isles that 
groan 

Under the Briton's frown, and all their wa- 
ters 

Then trembling in the splendor of the 
moon ; 

When, as the wandering clouds unveiled or 
hid 

Her boundless light, he saw two adverse 
fleets 

Stalk through the night in the horizon's 
glimmer, 

Mingling fierce thunders and sulphureous 
gleams. 

And smoke which strangled every infant 
wind 

That soothed the silver clouds through the 
deep air. 

At length the battle slept, but the Sirocco 

Awoke, and drove his flock of thunder- 
clouds 63 1 

Over the sea-horizon, blotting out 

All objects — save that in the faint moon- 
glimpse 

He saw, or dreamed he saw, the Turkish 
admiral 

And two the loftiest of our ships of war 

With the bright image of that Queen of 
Heaven, 

Who hid, perhaps, her face for grief, re- 
versed; 

And the abhorred cross — 

Enter an Attendant 

ATTENDANT 

Your Sublime Highness, 
The Jew, who — 

MAHMUD 

Could not come more seasonably. 
Bid him attend. I '11 hear no more ! too 

long 640 

We gaze on danger through the mist of 

fear. 
And multiply upon our shattered hopes 
The images of ruin. Come what will ! 
To-morrow and to-morrow are as lamps 
Set in our path to light us to the edge 



Through rough and smooth; nor can we 

suffer aught 
Which he inflicts not in whose hand we are. 

[Exeunt. 

SEMICHORUS I 

Would I were the winged cloud 
Of a tempest swift and loud ! 

I would scorn 650 

The smile of morn, 
And the wave where the moonrise is born ! 

I would leave 

The spirits of eve 
A shroud for the corpse of the day to weave 
From other threads than mine ! 
Bask in the deep blue noon divine 

Who would, not I. 

SEMICHOKUS n 

Whither to fly ? 

SEMICHORUS I 

Where the rocks that gird the .^gean 660 
Echo to the battle psean 
Of the free, 
I would flee, 
A tempestuous herald of victory ! 
My golden rain 
For the Grecian slain 
Should mingle in tears with the bloody 
main ; 
And my solemn thunder-knell 
Should ring to the world the passing-bell 
Of tyranny ! 67c 

SEMICHORUS n 

Ah king ! wilt thou chain 
The rack and the rain ? 
Wilt thou fetter the lightning and hurri- 
cane ? 

The storms are free, 
But we 

CHORUS 

O Slavery ! thou frost of the world's prime, 

Killing its flowers and leaving its thorns 

bare ! 

Thy touch has stamped these limbs with 

crime. 

These brows thy branding garland bear; 

But the free heart, the impassive soul, 

Scorn thy control ! 68j 

SEMICHORUS I 

Let there be light ! said Liberty; 
And like sunrise from the sea 



HELLAS 



333 



Athens arose ! — Around her born, 
Shone like mountains in the morn 
Glorious states ; — and are they now 
Ashes, wrecks, oblivion? 



SEMICHOKUS n 



Go 



Where Thermae and Asopus swallowed 
Persia, as the sand does foam ; 

Deluge upon deluge followed, 690 

Discord, Macedon, and Rome; 

And, lastly, thou ! 

SEMICHOKUS I 

Temples and towers, 

Citadels and marts, and they 
Who live and die there, have been ours. 

And may be thine, and must decay; 
But Greece and her foundations are 
Built below the tide of war. 
Based on the crystalline sea 
Of thought and its eternity; 
Her citizens, imperial spirits, 700 

Rule the present from the past; 
On all this world of men inherits 

Their seal is set. 

SEMICHOBUS II 

Hear ye the blast, 
Whose Orphic thunder thrilling calls 
From ruin her Titanian walls ? 
Whose spirit shakes the sapless bones 

Of Slavery ? Argos, Corinth, Crete, 
Hear, and from their mountain thrones 

The daemons and the nymphs repeat 
The harmony. 



SEMICHORUS I 

I hear, I hear ! 



710 



SEMICHORUS n 

The world's eyeless charioteer, 

Destiny, is hurrying by ! 
What faith is crushed, what empire 

bleeds 
Beneath her earthquake-footed steeds ? 
What eagle-winged Victory sits 
At her right hand ? what Shadow flits 
Before ? what Splendor rolls behind ? 

Ruin and Renovation cry. 

Who but we ? 

SEMICHORUS I 

I hear, I hear ! 
The hiss as of a rushing wind, 720 



The roar as of an ocean foaming. 
The thunder as of earthquake coming 

I hear, I hear ! 
The crash as of an empire falling, 
The shrieks as of a people calling 
Mercy ! Mercy ! — How they thrill ! 
Then a shout of ' Kill, kill, kill ! ' 
And then a small still voice, thus — 

SEMICHORUS n 

For 
Revenge and Wrong bring forth their kind ; 

The foul cubs like their parents are; 730 
Their den is in the guilty mind. 

And Conscience feeds them with despair: 

SEMICHORUS I 

In sacred Athens, near the fane 

Of Wisdom, Pity's altar stood; 
Serve not the unknown God in vain, 
But pay that broken shrine again 
Love for hate, and tears for blood. 

Enter Mahmud and Ahasuerus 

MAHMUD 

Thou art a man, thou sayest, even as we. 



No more ! 



AHASUERUS 



MAHMUD 

But raised above thy fellow-men 
By thought, as I by power. 



AHASUERUS 

Thou sayest so. 

MAHMUD 

Thou art an adept in the difficult lore 741 
Of Greek and Frank philosophy; thou 

numberest 
The flowers, and thou measurest the stars; 
Thou severest element from element; 
Thy spirit is present in the past, and sees 
The birth of this old world through all its 

cycles 
Of desolation and of loveliness. 
And when man was not, and how man be- 
came 
The monarch and the slave of this low 

sphere. 
And all its narrow circles — it is much. 75a 
I honor thee, and would be what thou art 
Were I not what I am; but the unborn 
hour, 



334 



HELLAS 



Cradled iu fear and hope, conflicting storms, 
Who shall unveil ? Nor thou, nor I, nor 

any 
Mighty or wise. I apprehended not 
What thou hast taught me, but I now per- 
ceive 
That thou art no interpreter of dreams; 
Thou dost not own that art, device, or God, 
Can make the future present — let it come ! 
Moreover thou disdainest us and ours ! 760 
Thou art as God, whom thou contemplatest. 

AHASUEBUS 

Disdain thee ? — not the worm beneath 

thy feet ! 
The Fathomless has care for meaner things 
Than thou canst dream, and has made 

pride for those 
Who would be what they may not, or would 

seem 
That which they are not. Sultan ! talk no 

more 
Of thee and me, the future and the past; 
But look on that which cannot change — 

the One, 
The unborn and the undying. Earth and 

Ocean, 
Space, and the isles of life or light that 

gem 770 

The sapphire floods of interstellar air. 
This firmament pavilioned upon chaos. 
With all its cressets of immortal fire. 
Whose outwall, bastion^d impregnably 
Against the escape of boldest thoughts, 

repels them 
As Calpe the Atlantic clouds — this Whole 
Of suns, and worlds, and men, and beasts, 

and flowers, 
With all the silent or tempestuous workings 
By which they have been, are, or cease to 

be. 
Is but a vision; all that it inherits 780 

Are motes of a sick eye, bubbles, and 

dreams; 
Thought is its cradle and its grave, nor less 
The future and the past are idle shadows 
Of thought's eternal flight — they have no 

being; 
Nought is but that which feels itself to be. 

MAHMUD 

What meanest thou ? thy words stream 

like a tempest 
Of dazzling mist within my brain — they 

shake 



The earth on which I stand, and hang like 

night 
On Heaven above me. What can they 

avail ? 
They cast on all things, surest, brightest, 

best, — 790 

Doubt, insecurity, astonishment. 

AHASUERUS 

Mistake me not ! All is contained in each. 

Dodona's forest to an acorn's cup 

Is that which has been or will be, to that 

Which is — the absent to the present. 
Thought 

Alone, and its quick elements, Will, Pas- 
sion, 

Reason, Imagination, cannot die; 

They are what that which they regard ap- 
pears. 

The stuff whence mutability can weave 

All that it hath dominion o'er — worlds, 
worms, 800 

Empires, and superstitions. What has 
thought 

To do with time, or place, or circumstance ? 

Wouldst thou behold the future ? — ask 
and have ! 

Knock and it shall be opened — look, and 
lo! 

The coming age is shadowed on the past 

As on a glass. 

MAHMUD 

Wild, wilder thoughts convulse 
My spirit. Did not Mahomet the Second 
W^in Stamboul ? 

AHASUERUS 

Thou wouldst ask that giant spirit 
The written fortunes of thy house and 

faith. 
Thou wouldst cite one out of the grave to 

tell 810 

How what was born in blood must die. 



MAHMUD 



Have power on me ! I see — 



Thy words 



A far whisper 



AHASUERUS 

What hearest thou ? 

MAHMUD 

Terrible silence. 



HELLAS 



335 



AHASUEBUS 

What succeeds ? 

MAHMUD 

The sound 
As of the assault of an imperial city, 
The hiss of inextinguishable fire, 
The roar of giant cannon; the earth-quak- 
ing 
Fall of vast bastions and precipitous towers. 
The shock of crags shot from strange en- 
ginery. 
The clash of wheels, and clang of armed 
hoofs 820 

And crash of brazen mail, as of the wreck 
Of adamantine mountains; the mad blast 
Of trumpets, and the neigh of raging 

steeds, 
And shrieks of women whose thrill jars 

the blood, 
And one sweet laugh, most horrible to 

hear. 
As of a joyous infant waked, and playing 
With its dead mother's breast; and now 

more loud 
The mingled battle-cry — ha ! hear I not 
'Ev ToiTcp viKT}. AUah-illah- Allah ! 

AHASUERUS 

The sulphurous mist is raised — thou 
seest — 

MAHMUD 

A chasm, 
As of two mountains, in the wall of Stam- 
boul; 831 

And in that ghastly breach the Islamites, 
Like giants on the ruins of a world. 
Stand in the light of sunrise. In the dust 
Glimmers a kingless diadem, and one 
Of regal port has cast himself beneath 
The stream of war. Another proudly clad 
In golden arms spurs a Tartarian barb 
Into the gap, and with his iron mace 
Directs the torrent of that tide of men, 840 
And seems — he is — Mahomet ! 

AHASUERUS 

What thou seest 
Is but the ghost of thy forgotten dream; 
A dream itself, yet less, perhaps, than that 
Thou call'st reality. Thou mayst behold 
How cities, on which empire sleeps en- 
throned. 
Bow their towered crests to mutability. 



Poised by the flood, e'en on the height thou 

boldest, 
Thou mayst now learn how the full tide of 

power 
Ebbs to its depths. Inheritor of glory 
Conceived in darkness, born in blood, and 

nourished 850 

With tears and toil, thou seest the mortal 

throes 
Of that whose birth was but the same. 

The Past 
Now stands before thee like an Incarnation 
Of the To-come ; yet wouldst thou commune 

with 
That portion of thyself which was ere thou 
Didst start for this brief race whose crown 

is death. 
Dissolve with that strong faith and fervent 

passion. 
Which called it from the uncreated deep, 
Yon cloud of war with its tempestuous 

phantoms 
Of raging death; and draw with mighty 

will 860 

The imperial shade hither. 

[Exit Ahasuerus. 

MAHMUD 

Approach ! 

PHANTOM 

I come 
Thence whither thou must go ! The grave 

is fitter 
To take the living than give up the dead; 
Yet has thy faith prevailed, and I am here. 
The heavy fragments of the power which 

fell 
When I arose, like shapeless crags and 

clouds. 
Hang round my throne on the abyss, and 

voices 
Of strange lament soothe my supreme re- 
pose. 
Wailing for glory never to return. 
A later empire nods in its decay; 870 

The autumn of a greener faith is come; 
And wolfish change, like winter, howls to 

strip 
The foliage in which Fame, the eagle, 

built 
Her aerie, while Dominion whelped below. 
The storm is in its branches, and the frost 
Is on its leaves, and the blank deep expects 
Oblivion on oblivion, spoil on spoil, 



33^ 



HELLAS 



Ruin on ruin. Thou art slow, my son; 
The Anarchs of the world of darkness keep 
A throne for thee, round which tliiue em- 
pire lies 880 
Boundless and mute; and for thy subjects 

thou. 
Like us, shalt rule the ghosts of murdered 

life, 
The phantoms of the powers who rule thee 

now — 
Mutinous passions and conflicting fears, 
And hopes that sate themselves on dust and 

die, 
Stripped of their mortal strength, as thou 

of thine. 
Islam must fall, but we will reign together 
Over its ruins in the world of death; 
And if the trunk be dry, yet shall the seed 
Unfold itself even in the shape of that 890 
Which gathers birth in its decay. Woe ! 

Woe! 
To the weak people tangled in the grasp 
Of its last spasms ! 

MAHMUD 

Spirit, woe to all ; 

Woe to the wronged and the avenger ! 
Woe 

To the destroyer, woe to the destroyed ! 

Woe to the dupe, and woe to the deceiver ! 

Woe to the oppressed, and woe to the op- 
pressor ! 

Woe both to those that suffer and inflict; 

Those who are born, and those who die ! 
But say. 

Imperial shadow of the thing I am, 900 

When, how, by whom, Destruction must 
accomplish 

Her consummation ? 

PHANTOM 

Ask the cold pale Hour, 
Rich in reversion of impending death, 
When he shall fall upon whose ripe gray 

hairs 
Sit Care, and Sorrow, and Infirmity — 
The weight which Crime, whose wings are 

plumed with years. 
Leaves in his flight from ravaged heart to 

heart 
Over the heads of men, under which bur- 
den 
They bow themselves unto the grave. 

Fond wretch ! 
He leans upon his crutch, and talks of years 



To come, and how in hours of youth re- 
newed 911 
He will renew lost joys, and — 

VOICE (without) 

Victory ! victory ! 
\^The Phantom vanishes. 

MAHMUD 

What sound of the importunate earth has 

broken 
My mighty trance ? 

VOICE (without) 

Victory ! victory ! 

MAHMUD 

Weak lightning before darkness ! poor 

faint smile 
Of dying Islam ! Voice which art the re- 
sponse 
Of hollow weakness ! Do I wake and 

live ? 
Were there such things ? or may the un- 
quiet brain. 
Vexed by the wise mad talk of the old 

Jew, 
Have shaped itself these shadows of its 
fear ? 920 

It matters not ! — for nought we see or 

dream. 
Possess, or lose, or grasp at, can be worth 
More than it gives or teaches. Come what 

may. 
The future must become the past, and I 
As they were, to whom once this present 

hour. 
This gloomy crag of time to which I cling, 
Seemed an Elysian isle of peace and joy 
Never to be attained. — I must rebuke 
This drunkenness of triumph ere it die. 
And dying, bring despair. Victory ! poor 
slaves ! 930 

[Exit Mahmud. 

VOICE (without) 

Shout in the jubilee of death ! the Greeks 

Are as a brood of lions in the net 

Round which the kingly hunters of the 

earth 
Stand smiling. Anarchs, ye whose daily 

food 
Are curses, groans, and gold, the fruit of 

death, 
From Thule to the girdle of the world, 



HELLAS 



337 



Come, feast ! the board groans with the 

flesh of men; 
The cup is foaming with a nation's blood; 
Famine and Tliirst await ! eat, drink, and 

die ! 



SEMICHORUS I 



Victorious Wrong, with vulture scream, 
Salutes the risen sun, pursues the flying 



day 



941 



I saw her ghastly as a tyrant's dream, 

Perch on the trembling pyramid of night. 

Beneath which earth and all her realms 

pavilioned lay 
In visions of the dawning undelight. 

Who shall impede her flight ? 
Who rob her of her prey ? 

VOICE (without) 

Victory, victory ! Russia's famished eagles 

Dare not to prey beneath the crescent's 
light. 

Impale the remnant of the Greeks ! de- 
spoil ! 950 

Violate ! make their flesh cheaper than 
dust! 

SEMICHORUS II 

Thou voice which art 
The herald of the ill in splendor hid ! 

Thou echo of the hollow heart 
Of monarchy, bear me to thine abode 
When desolation flashes o'er a world de- 
stroyed. 
Oh, bear me to those isles of jagged cloud 
Which float like mountains on the 
earthquake, mid 958 

The momentary oceans of the lightning; 
Or to some toppling promontory proud 
Of solid tempest, whose black pyramid. 
Riven, overhangs the founts intensely 
brightning 
Of those dawn-tinted deluges of fire 
Before their waves expire. 
When heaven and earth are light, and only 
light 

In the thunder-night ! 

VOICE (without) 
Victory, victory ! Austria, Russia, England, 
And that tame serpent, that poor shadow, 

France, 
Cry peace, and that means death when 

monarchs speak. 
Ho, there ! bring torches, sharpen those 

red stakes ! 970 



These chains are light, fitter for slaves and 

poisoners 
Than Greeks. Kill, plunder, burn ! let 

none remain. 

SEMICHORUS I 

Alas for Liberty ! 
If numbers, wealth, or unfulfiUing years. 
Or fate, can quell the free ! 
Alas for Virtue ! when 
Torments, or contumely, or the sneers 

Of erring judging men 
Can break the heart where it abides ! 
Alas ! if Love, whose smile makes this ob- 
scure world splendid, 980 
Can change, with its false times and tides, 
Like hope and terror — 
Alas for Love ! 
And Truth, who wanderest lone and unbe- 

friended. 
If thou canst veil thy lie-consuming mir- 
ror 
Before the dazzled eyes of Error, 
Alas for thee ! Image of the Above ! 

SEMICHORUS II 

Repulse, with plumes from conquest torn. 
Led the ten thousand from the limits of 
the morn 
Through many an hostile Anarchy ! 990 
At length they wept aloud and cried, 'the 
sea ! the sea ! ' 
Through exile, persecution, and despair, 
Rome was, and young Atlantis shall 

become, 
The wonder, or the terror, or the tomb, 
Of all whose step wakes Power lulled in 
her savage lair. 
But Greece was as a hermit child. 

Whose fairest thoughts and limbs were 
built 
To woman's growth by dreams so mild 
She knew not pain or guilt; 
And now, O Victory, blush ! and Empire, 
tremble, 1000 

When ye desert the free ! 
If Greece must be 
A wreck, yet shall its fragments reassem- 
ble. 
And build themselves again impregnably 

In a diviner clime. 
To Amphionic music, on some Cape sub- 
lime 
Which frowns above the idle foam of 
time. 



33^ 



HELLAS 



SBMICHORUS I 

Let the tyrants rule the desert they have 
made; 
Let the free possess the paradise they 
claim ; 
Be the fortmie of our fierce oppressors 
weighed loio 

With our ruin, our resistance, and our 
name ! 

SEMICHORUS II 

Our dead shall be the seed of their decay, 
Our survivors be the shadows of their 
pride, 

Our adversity a dream to pass away, — 
Their dishonor a remembrance to abide ! 

VOICE (without) 
Victory ! Victory ! the bought Briton sends 
The keys of ocean to the Islamite. 
Now shall the blazon of the cross be veiled. 
And British skill, directing Othman might. 
Thunder-strike rebel victory. Oh, keep 
holy I020 

This jubilee of unreveng^d blood ! 
Kill, crush, despoil ! Let not a Greek es- 
cape ! 

SEMICHORUS I 

Darkness has dawned in the East 

On the noon of time; 
The death birds descend to their feast. 

From the hungry clime. 
Let Freedom and Peace flee far 

To a sunnier strand. 
And follow Love's folding star 



To the Evening land ! 



1030 



SEMICHORUS II 

The young moon has fed 
Her exhausted horn 
With the sunset's fire; 
The weak day is dead. 
But the night is not born; 
And, like loveliness panting with wild de- 
sire. 
While it trembles with fear and delight, 
Hesperus flies from awakening night, 
And pants in its beauty and speed with light 
Fast-flashing, soft and bright. 1040 

Thou beacon of love ! thou lamp of the free ! 

Guide us far, far away. 
To climes where now, veiled by the ardor 
of day. 

Thou art hidden 



From waves on which weary Noon 

Faints in her summer swoon. 

Between kingless continents, sinless as 

Eden, 
Around mountains and islands in viola- 

bly 
Pranked on the sapphire sea. 

SEMICHORUS I 

Through the sunset of hope, 1050 

Like the shapes of a dream, 
What Paradise islands of glory gleam ! 

Beneath Heaven's cope, 
Their shadows more clear float by ; 
The sound of their oceans, the light of 

their sky. 
The music and fragrance their solitudes 

breathe. 
Burst like morning on dream, or like Hea- 
ven on death. 
Through the walls of our prison; 
And Greece, which was dead, is arisen ! 



CHORUS 



060 



The world's great age begins anew. 

The golden years return. 
The earth doth like a snake renew 

Her winter weeds outworn; 
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires 

gleam. 
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. 



A brighter Hellas rears its mountains 

From waves serener far; 
A new Peneus rolls his fountains 

Against the morning-star. 
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep 
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. 



107 1 



A loftier Argo cleaves the main, 
Fraught with a later prize ; 

Another Orpheus sings again. 
And loves, and weeps, and dies. 

A new Ulysses leaves once more 

Calypso for his native shore. 

Oh, write no more the tale of Troy, 
If earth Death's scroll must be ! 

Nor mix with Laian rage the joy 
Which dawns upon the free; 

Although a subtler Sphinx renew 

Riddles of death Thebes never knew. 

Another Athens shall arise, 
And to remoter time 



1080 



EARLY POEMS 



339 



Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, 

The splendor of its prime; 
And leave, if nought so bright may live, 
All earth can take or Heaven can give. 

Saturn and Love their long repose 1090 
Shall burst, more bright and good 

Than all who fell, than One who rose. 
Than many unsubdued; 



Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers. 
But votive tears and symbol flowers. 

Oh, cease ! must hate and death return ? 

Cease ! must men kill and die ? 
Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn 

Of bitter prophecy. 
The world is weary of the past, noo 

Oh, might it die or rest at last ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



EARLY POEMS 
1813-1815 

The Miscellaneous Poems, with some excep- 
tions, were published either by Shelley, in his 
successive volumes, or by Mrs. Shelley, in 
Posthumous Poems, 1824, and the two editions 
of 1839. A few first appeared elsewhere and 
were included in the collected editions by Mrs. 
Shelley, and still others have from time to 
time found their way to the public. The origi- 
nal issue of each poem is here stated in the in- 
troductory note, and its history so far as known 
is given. By far the greater portion of Shelley's 
shorter poems is personal, and many of them 
are addressed to his friends and companions or 
those who made up the domestic circle in his 
wanderings ; even those which are most en- 
tirely poems of nature are, with few exceptions, 
charged with his moods, and governed by pass- 
ing circumstances ; as a whole, therefore, they 
require, for full understanding, intimacy with 
the events of his private life, and the reader 
must be referred to the Life of the poet for 
such a narrative as could not be condensed in- 
telligibly into brief introductory notes, with 
respect both to persons and facts. Mrs. 
Shelley's biographical notes, however, have 
been largely used to preface the poems of each 
year because of their extraordinary truth to the 
feeling and atmosphere of Shelley's Italian 
life. The few political poems are sufficiently 



explained by reference to current events ; in 
most of these Shelley owes the manner to 
Coleridge's example. 

Tradition has established Queen Mab at the 
head of Shelley's mature work, and in accord- 
ance with it all poems earlier than Queen Mab 
are included under Juvenilia. A more just sense 
would have given this honor to Alastor, and 
have relegated the poems of 1815 to the period 
of immaturity, to which with all the events 
relating to them they together with Queen Mab 
belong. It is, however, not deemed wise to 
attempt to disturb the traditionary arrange- 
ment at so late a time. 

The Early Poems mainly relate to Shelley's 
domestic history. A few only show his politi- 
cal interest. Mrs. Shelley describes the sum- 
mer of 1815 as one of rest, but it was excep- 
tional, as these years were the most troubled 
of his life. Her record begins with 1815. 

' He never spent a season more tranquilly 
than the summer of 1815. He had just recov- 
ered from a severe pulmonary attack ; the 
weather was warm and pleasant. He lived 
near Windsor Forest, and his life was spent 
under its shades, or on the water ; meditating 
subjects for verse. Hitherto, he had chiefly 
aimed at extending his political doctrines ; and 
attempted so to do by appeals, in prose essays, 
to the people, exhorting them to claim their 
rights ; but he had now begun to feel that the 
time for action was not ripe in England, and 
that the pen was the only instrument where- 
with to prepare the way for better things.' 



EVENING 



TO HARRIET 



Composed at Bracknell, July 31, 1813, for 
the birthday (August 1 ) of Harriet, his first 
wife, on the completion of her eighteenth year. 
Published by Dcwden, Life of Shelley, 1887. 



O THOU bright Sun ! beneath the dark blue 

line 
Of western distance that sublime de- 

scendest. 
And, gleaming lovelier as thy beams de* 

cline, 
Thy million hues to every vapor lend 

est, 



340 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And, over cobweb lawn and grove and 
stream 

Sheddest the liquid magic of thy light, 

Till calm Earth, with the parting splen- 
dor bright, 

Shows like the vision of a beauteous 
dream; 
What gazer now with astronomic eye 

Could coldly count the spots within thy 
sphere ? 

Such were thy lover, Harriet, could he fly 
The thoughts of all that makes his passion 
dear, 

And, turning senseless from thy warm 
caress. 

Pick flaws in our close-woven happiness. 

TO lANTHE 

Elizabeth lanthe, Shelley's first child, was 
born June, 1813. Published by Dowden, Life 
of Shelley, 1887. 

I LOVE thee, Baby ! for thine own sweet 
sake; 

Those azure eyes, that faintly dimpled 
cheek. 

Thy tender frame, so eloquently weak, 

Love in the sternest heart of hate might 
wake; 
But more when o'er thy fitful slumber 
bending 

Thy mother folds thee to her wakeful 
heart. 

Whilst love and pity, in her glances 
blending. 

All that thy passive eyes can feel im- 
part: 
More, when some feeble lineaments of her. 

Who bore thy weight beneath her spot- 
less bosom. 

As with deep love I read thy face, re- 
cur, — 
More dear art thou, O fair and fragile 
blossom ; 

Dearest when most thy tender traits ex- 
press 

The image of thy mother's loveliness. 

STANZA 

WRITTEN AT BRACKNELL 

The stanza apparently refers to Mrs. Boin- 
yflle, from whose house Shelley writes to Hogg-, 



March 16, 1814 : ' I have written nothing- but 
one stanza, which has no meaning, and that I 
have only written in thought. This is the 
vision of a delirious and distempered dream, 
which passes away at the cold clear light of 
morning-. Its surpassing excellence and ex- 
quisite perfections have no more reality than 
the color of an autumnal sunset.' Published 
by Hogg, Life of Shelley. 1858. 

Thy dewy looks sink in my breast ; 

Thy gentle words stir poison there; 
Thou hast disturbed the only rest 

That was the portion of despair ! 
Subdued to Duty's hard control, 

I could have borne my wayward lot: 
The chains that bind this ruined soul 

Had cankered then — but crushed it not, 

TO 



AAKPT2I AlOnn nOTMON 'AnOTMON. 

Mrs. Shelley states that Coleridge is the per- 
son addressed : ' The poem beginning " Oh, 
there are spirits in the air " was addressed in 
idea to Coleridge, whom he never knew ; and 
at whose character he could only guess imper- 
fectly, throvigh his writings and accounts he 
heard of him from some who knew him well. 
He regarded his change of opinions as rather 
an act of Avill than conviction, and believed 
that in his inner heart he would be haunted by 
what Shelley considered the better and holier 
aspirations of his youth,' Dowden questions 
' whether it was not rather addressed in a de- 
spondent mood by Shelley to his own spirit.' 
This suggestion was first advanced by Bertram 
Dobell, in his reprint of Alastor, and supported 
by the assent of Rossetti there given ; that it 
is correct is reasonably certain. Published 
with Alastor, 1816. 

Oh, there are spirits of the air, 

And genii of the evening breeze, 
And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair 

As star-beams among twilight trees ! 
Such lovely ministers to meet 
Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely 
feet. 

With mountain winds, and babbling 
springs. 
And moonlight seas, that are the voice 
Of these inexplicable things, 

Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice 
When they did answer thee ; but they 
Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away. 



EARLY POEMS 



34i 



And thou hast sought in starry eyes 
Beams that were never meant for 
thine, 
Another's wealth; — tame sacrifice 

To a foud faith ! still dost thou pine ? 
Still dost thou hope that greeting hands, 
Voice, looks or lips, may answer thy de- 
mands ? 

Ah, wherefore didst thou build thine hope 

On the false earth's inconstancy ? 
Did thine own mind afford no scope 

Of love, or moving thoughts to thee. 
That natural scenes or human smiles 
Could steal the power to wind thee in their 
wiles ? 

Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled 
Whose falsehood left thee broken- 
hearted ; 
The glory of the moon is dead; 

Night's ghost and dreams have now 
departed; 
Thine own soul still is true to thee, 
But changed to a foul fiend through misery. 

This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever 
Beside thee like thy shadow hangs. 

Dream not to chase; — the mad endeavor 
Would scourge thee to severer pangs. 

Be as thou art. Thy settled fate. 
Dark as it is, all change would aggravate. 



TO 



This poem is placed conjecturally by Mrs. 
Shelley with the poems of 1817 ; but Do-wden 
suggests that it was addressed to Mary Godwin 
in June, 1814. Harriet answers as well or 
better to the situation described. Published 
by Mrs. SheUey, 2d ed., 1839. 

Fet look on me — take not thine eyes 
away, 
Which feed upon the love within mine 
own, 
Which is indeed but the reflected ray 
Of thine own beauty from my spirit 

thrown. 
Yet speak to me — thy voice is as the 
tone 
Of my heart's echo, and I think I hear 

That thou yet lovest me; yet thou alone 
Like one before a mirror, without care 



Of aught but thine own features, imaged 

there; 
And yet I wear out life in watching thee; 
A toil so sweet at times, and thou indeed 
Art kind when I am sick, and pity me. 

STANZAS. APRIL, 1814 

Described by Dowden as ' a fragment of 
transmuted biography ; ' he ascribes Shelley's 
mood to his bidding farewell to the Boinvilles 
on his return to his own home. The incident 
that occasioned the verses has not been re- 
corded. It was composed at Bracknell, and 
published with Alastor, 1816. 

Away ! the moor is dark beneath the moon. 
Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale 
beam of even. 
Away ! the gathering winds will call the 
darkness soon. 
And profoundest midnight shroud the 
serene lights of heaven. 
Pause not ! the time is past ! every voice 
cries, Away ! 
Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's 
ungentle mood; 
Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares 
not entreat thy stay; 
Duty and dereliction guide thee back to 
solitude. 

Away, away ! to thy sad and silent home; 
Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; 
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they 
go and come, 
And complicate strange webs of melan- 
choly mirth. 
The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall 
float around thine head; 
The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam 
beneath thy feet; 
But thy soul or this world must fade in the 
frost that binds the dead, 
Ere midnight's frown and morning's 
smile, ere thou and peace, may meet. 

The cloud-shadows of midnight possess 
their own repose, 
For the weary winds are silent, or the 
moon is in the deep; 
Some respite to its turbulence unresting 
ocean knows; 
Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves. 
hath its appointed sleep. 



342 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Thou in the grave shalt rest — yet till the 
phantoms flee, 
Which that house and heath and garden 
made dear to thee erewhile, 
Thy remembrance, and repentance, and 
deep musings are not free 
From the music of two voices, and the 
light of one sweet smile. 



TO HARRIET 

Dowden, who published the poem in Life of 
Shelley, 1887, describes it as ' the first of a few 
[five] short pieces added in Han-iet's hand- 
writing to the MS. collection of poems pre- 
pared for publication in the early days of the 
preceding year.' It was composed in May, 
1814. 

Thy look of love has power to calm 
The stormiest passion of my soul; 

Thy gentle words are drops of balm 
In life's too bitter bowl; 

No grief is mine, but that alone 

These choicest blessings I have known. 

Harriet ! if all who long to live 
In the warm sunshine of thine eye. 

That price beyond all pain must give, — 
Beneath thy scorn to die; 

Then hear thy chosen own too late 

His heart most worthy of thy hate. 

Be thou, then, one among mankind 
Whose heart is harder not for state, 

Thou only virtuous, gentle, kind. 
Amid a world of hate; 

And by a slight endurance seal 

A fellow-being's lasting weal. 

For pale with anguish is his cheek. 

His breath comes fast, his eyes are dim, 

Thy name is struggling ere he speak. 
Weak is each trembling limb; 

In mercy let him not endure 

The misery of a fatal cure. 

Oh, trust for once no erring guide ! 

Bid the remorseless feeling flee; 
'T is malice, 't is revenge, 't is pride, 

'Tis anything but thee; 
Oh, deign a nobler pride to prove, 
And pity if thou canst not love. 



TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT 
GODWIN 

Composed in June, 1814, and published by 
Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. 



Mine eyes were dim with tears unshed; 

Yes, I was firm — thus wert not thou ; 
My baffled looks did fear yet dread 

To meet thy looks — I could not know 
How anxiously they sought to shine 
With soothing pity upon mine. 

II 

To sit and curb the soul's mute rage 
Which preys upon itself alone; 

To curse the life which is the cage 

Of fettered grief that dares not groan, 

Hiding from many a careless eye 

The scorned load of agony; 

III 

Whilst thou alone, then not regarded. 
The thou alone should be, — 

To spend years thus, and be rewarded. 
As thou, sweet love, requited me 

When none were near — Oh, I did wake 

From torture for that moment's sake. 

IV 

Upon my heart thy accents sweet 
Of peace and pity fell like dew 

On flowers half dead; thy lips did meet 
Mine tremblingly; thy dark eyes thrcT! 

Their soft persuasion on my brain. 

Charming away its dream of pain. 

V 

We are not happy, sweet ! our state 
Is strange and full of doubt and fear; 

More need of words that ills abate; — 
Reserve or censure come not near 

Our sacred friendship, lest there be 

No solace left for thee and me. 

VI 

Gentle and good and mild thou art. 
Nor can I live if thou appear 

Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart 
Away from me, or stoop to wear 

The mask of scorn, although it be 

To hide the love thou feel'st for me. 



EARLY POEMS 



343 



MUTABILITY 

Published with Alastor, 1816. 

We are as clouds that veil the midnight 
moon; 
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, 
and quiver. 
Streaking the darkness radiantly ! — yet 
soon 
Night closes round, and they are lost 
forever: 

Or like forgotten lyres whose dissonant 
strings 
Give various response to each varying 
blast, 
To whose frail frame no second motion 
brings 
One mood or modulation like the last. 

We rest — a dream has power to poison 
sleep; 
We rise — one wandering thought pol- 
lutes the day; 
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep ; 
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares 
away: 

It is the same ! — for, be it joy or sorrow, 
The path of its departure still is free; 

Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his 
morrow; 
Nought may endure but Mutability. 

ON DEATH 

Published with Alastor, 1816. An earlier 
version is among the Esdaile MSS. in the collec- 
tion Shelley intended to issue with Queen Mab 
in 1813, and the poem is the only one preserved 
by him out of that collection. 

There is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor 
wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest. — Ecclesi- 

ASTES. 

The pale, the cold, and the moony smile 
Which the meteor beam of a starless 
night 
Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle, 

Ere the dawning of morn's undoubted 
light, 
Is the flame of life so fickle and wan 
That flits round our steps till their strength 
is gone. 



O man f hold thee on in courage of soul 
Through the stormy shades of thy 

worldly way. 
And the billows of cloud that around thee 

roll 
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous 

day. 
Where hell and heaven shall leave thee 

free 
To the universe of destiny. 

This world is the nurse of all we know. 
This world is the mother of all we feel; 

And the coming of death is a fearful blow 
To a brain uneucompassed with nerves of 
steel, 

When all that we know, or feel, or see, 

Shall pass like an unreal mystery. 

The secret things of the grave are there, 

Where all but this frame must surely be, 
Though the fine-wrought eye and the won- 
drous ear 
No longer will live to hear or to see 
All that is great and all that is strange 
In the boundless realm of unending 
change. 

Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death ? 

Who lifteth the veil of what is to come ? 
Who painteth the shadows that are beneath 
The wide-windiug caves of the peopled 
tomb? 
Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be 
With the fears and the love for that which 
we see ? 



A SUMMER EVENING CHURCH- 
YARD 

LECHLADE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE 

Composed September, 181.5, while on a voy- 
age up the Thames with Peacock. Published 
with Alastor, 1816. 

The wind has swept from the wide atmo- 
sphere 
Each vapor that obscured the sunset's 

ray; 
And pallid Evening twines its beaming 
hair 
In duskier braids around the languid 
eyes of Day. 



344 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Silence and Twilight, unbeloved of men, 
Creep hand in hand from yon obscurest 
glen. 

They breathe their spells toward the de- 
parting day, 
Encompassing the earth, air, stars and 
sea; 

Light, sound and motion own the potent 
sway, 
Responding to the charm with its own 
mystery. 

The winds are still, or the dry church- 
tower grass 

Knows not their gentle motions as they 
pass. 

Thou too, aerial Pile, whose pinnacles 
Point from one shrine like pyramids of 

fire, 
Obeyest in silence their sweet solemn 

spells, 
Clothing in hues of heaven thy dim and 

distant spire, 
Around whose lessening and invisible 

height 
Gather among the stars the clouds of 

night. 

The dead are sleeping in their sepulchres; 
And, mouldering as they sleep, a thrill- 
ing sound. 

Half sense, half thought, among the dark- 
ness stirs, 
Breathed from their wormy beds all liv- 
ing things around; 

And mingling with the still night and 
mute sky 

Its awful hush is felt inaudibly. 

Thus solemnized and softened, death is 
mild 
And terrorless as this serenest night; 
Here could I hope, like some inquiring child 
Sporting on graves, that death did hide 
from human sight 
Sweet secrets, or beside its breathless sleep 
That loveliest dreams perpetual watch did 
keep. 

TO WORDSWORTH 

This poem reflects the contemporary feeling 
of the radicals toward Wordsworth's conserva- 
tive politics. Published with Alastor, 1816. 



Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know 

That things depart which never may re- 
turn; 

Childhood and youth, friendship and 
love's first glow. 

Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee 
to mourn. 
These common woes I feel. One loss is 
mine. 

Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone de- 
plore ; 

Thou wert as a lone star whose light did 
shine 

On some frail bark in winter's midnight 
roar; 
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge 
stood 

Above the blind and battling multitude; 

In honored poverty thy voice did weave 
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty ; — 

Deserting these, thou leavest me to 
grieve. 

Thus having been, that thou shouldst 
cease to be. 



FEELINGS OF A REPUBLICAN 
ON THE FALL OF BONAPARTE 

Published with Alastor, 1816. 

I HATED thee, fallen tyrant ! I did groan 
To think that a most unambitious slave, 
Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on 

the grave 
Of Liberty. Tliou mightst have built 

thy throne 
Where it had stood even now: thou didst 

prefer 
A frail and bloody pomp which time has 

swept 
In fragments towards oblivion. Massa- 
cre, 
For this I prayed, would on thy sleep 

have crept, 
Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and 

Lust, 
And stifled thee, their minister. I know 
Too late, since thou and France are in 

the dust. 
That Virtue owns a more eternal foe 
Than Force or Fraud: old Custom, 

Legal Crime, 
And bloody Faith, the foulest birth of 

time. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1816 



345 



LINES 

This poem apparently refers to the death of 
Harriet, in November, 1816, and was published 
by Hunt in The Literary Pocket-Book, 1823. 

The cold earth slept below; 
Above the cold sky shone; 

And all around, 

With a chilling sound, 
From caves of ice and fields of snow 
The breath of night like death did flow 

Beneath the sinking moon. 

The wintry hedge was black; 
The green grass was not seen; 

The birds did rest 

On the bare thorn's breast. 
Whose roots, beside the pathway track. 
Had bound their folds o'er many a crack 

Which the frost had made between. 

Thine eyes glowed in the glare 
Of the moon's dying light; 
As a fen-fire's beam 
On a sluggish stream 
Gleams dimly — so the moon shone there, 
And it yellowed the strings of thy tangled 
hair. 
That shook in the wind of night. 

The moon made thy lips pale, belovM; 
The wind made thy bosom chill; 

The night did shed 

On thy dear head 
Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie 
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky 

Might visit thee at will. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1816 

THE SUNSET 

This poem seems to contain elements of 
memory as well as of imagination. It was 
composed at Bishopsgate in the spring-, and 
published in part by Hunt, The Literary 
Pocket-Book, 1823, and entire by Mrs. Shel- 
ley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. 

There late was One within whose subtle 

being, 
As light and wind within some delicate 

cloud 



That fades amid the blue noon's burning 

sky, 
Genius and death contended. None may 

know 
The sweetness of the joy which made his 

breath 
Fail, like the trances of the summer air, 
When, with the lady of his love, who then 
First knew the unreserve of mingled being, 
He walked along the pathway of a field, 
Which to the east a hoar wood shadowed 

o'er, 10 

But to the west was open to the sky. 
There now the sun had sunk; but lines of 

gold 
Hung on the ashen clouds, and on the 

points 
Of the far level grass and nodding flowers, 
And the old dandelion's hoary beard, 
And, mingled with the shades of twilight, 

lay 
On the brown massy woods; and in the 

east 
The broad and burning moon lingeringly 

rose 
Between the black trunks of the crowded 

trees. 
While the faint stars were gathering over- 
head. 20 
' Is it not strange, Isabel,' said the youth, 
* I never saw the sun ? We will walk here 
To-morrow; thou shalt look on it with me.* 

That night the youth and lady mingled lay 
In love and sleep; but when the morning 

came 
The lady found her lover dead and cold. 
Let none believe that God in mercy gave 
That stroke. The lady died not, nor grew 

wild, 28 

But year by year lived on; in truth I think 
Her gentleness and patience and sad smiles, 
And that she did not die, but lived to tend 
Her aged father, were a kind of madness. 
If madness 't is to be unlike the world. 
For but to see her were to read the tale 
Woven by some subtlest bard to mak6 

hard hearts 
Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief. 
Her eyes were black and lustreless and wan. 
Her eyelashes were worn away with tears, 
Her lips and cheeks were like things dead 

— so pale; 
Her hands were thin, and through theii 

wandering veins 



346 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And weak articulations might be seen 
Day's ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead 

self 
Which one vexed ghost inhabits, night and 

day, 
Is all, lost child, that now remains of 

thee! 

' Inheritor of more than earth can give. 
Passionless calm and silence unreproved, — 
Whether the dead find, oh, not sleep, but 

rest, 
And are the uncomplaining things they 

seem. 
Or live, or drop in the deep sea of Love; 
Oh, that, like thine, mine epitaph were — 

Peace ! ' 50 

This was the only moan she ever made. 

HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL 
BEAUTY 

Composed in Switzerland, where Shelley 
spent the summer, and conceived, Mrs. Shelley 
says, during his voyag-e round the Lake of Ge- 
neva with Lord Byron. It was published by 
Hnnt, The Examiner, 1817. 



The awful shadow of some unseen Power 
Floats though unseen among us, visit- 
ing 
This various world with as inconstant 
wing 
As summer winds that creep from flower 
to flower; 
Like moonbeams that behind some piny 
mountain shower. 
It visits with inconstant glance 
Each human heart and countenance; 
Like hues and harmonies of evening, 
Like clouds in starlight widely spread. 
Like memory of music fled. 
Like aught that for its grace may 
be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 

II 

Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate 
With thine own hues all thou dost 

shine upon 
Of human thought or form, where art 
thou gone ? 
Why dost thou pass away, and leave our 
state, 



This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and 
desolate ? — 
Ask why the sunlight not forever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain 
river; 
Why aught should fail and fade that 
once is shown; 
Why fear and dream and death and 

birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom; why man has such a 
scope 
For love and hate, despondency and 
hope. 

Ill 

No voice from some sublimer world hath 
ever 
To sage or poet these responses given; 
Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost 
and Heaven, 
Remain the records of their vain en- 
deavor — 
Frail spells, whose uttered charm might 
not avail to sever. 
From all we hear and all we see, 
Doubt, chance and mutability. 
Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains 
driven. 
Or music by the night wind sent 
Through strings of some still instru- 
ment, 
Or moonlight on a midnight stream, 
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet 
dream. 

IV 

Love, Hope and Self-esteem, like clouds, 
depart. 
And come, for some uncertain mo- 
ments lent. 
Man were immortal and omnipotent. 
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou 
art. 
Keep with thy glorious train firm state 
within his heart. 
Thou messenger of sympathies 
That wax and wane in lovers' eyes ! 
Thou, that to human thought art nourish- 
ment. 
Like darkness to a dying flame, 
Depart not as thy shadow came ! 
Depart not, lest the grave should 
be. 
Like life and fear, a dark reality I 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1816 



347 



While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and 
sped 
Through many a listening chamber, 

cave and ruin. 
And starlight wood, with fearful steps 
pursuing 
Hopes of high talk with the departed 
dead; 
I called on poisonous names with which our 
youth is fed. 
I was not heard — I saw them not — 
When, musing deeply on the lot 
Of life, at that sweet time when winds 
are wooing 
All vital things that wake to bring 
News of birds and blossoming, — 
Sudden thy shadow fell on me; 
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in 
ecstasy ! 

VI 

I vowed that I would dedicate my 
powers 
To thee and thine — have I not kept 

the vow ? 
With beating heart and streaming 
eyes, even now 
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
Each from his voiceless grave: they have 
in visioned bowers 
Of studious zeal or love's delight 
Outwatched with me the envious 
night — 
They know that never joy illumed my 
brow 
Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst 

free 
This world from its dark slavery, — 
That thou, O awful Loveliness, 
Wouldst give whate'er these words can- 
not express. 

VII 

The day becomes more solemn and 
serene 
When noon is past; there is a harmony 
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, 
Which through the summer is not heard 
or seen. 
As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 
Thus let thy power, which like the 

truth 
Of nature on my passive youth 
Descended, to my onward life supply 



Its calm, — to one who worships thee, 
And every form containing thee. 
Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind 
To fear himself, and love all humankind. 



MONT BLANC 

LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHA- 
MOUXI 

' The poem,' Shelley writes, in his Preface to 
History of a Six Weeks Tour, 1817, where it 
appeared, ' was composed under the immediate 
impression of the deep and powerful feelings 
excited by the objects which it attempts to de- 
scribe ; and, «8 an undisciplined overflowing of 
the soul, rests its claim to approbation on an 
attempt to imitate the untamable wildness and 
inaccessible solemnity from which those feel- 
ings sprang-.' 

The, 'objects' referred to, Mrs. Shelley 
notes, were Mont Blanc and ' its surrounding 
peaks and valleys, as he lingered on the Bridge 
of Arve on his way through the Valley of 
Chamouni.' 



The everlasting universe of things 

Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid 

waves. 
Now dark, now glittering, now reflecting 

gloom, 
Now lending splendor, where from secret 

springs 
The source of human thought its tribute 

brings 
Of waters, — with a sound but half its own, 
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume 
In the wild woods, among the mountains 

lone, 
Where waterfalls around it leap forever, 
Where woods and winds contend, and a 

vast river 10 

Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves. 

II 

Thus thou, Ravine of Arve — dark, deep 

Ravine — 
Thou many-colored, many-voiced vale. 
Over whose pines, and crags, and caverns 

sail 
Fast cloud-shadows, and sunbeams ! awful 

scene, 
Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes 

down 
From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne^ 



348 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Bursting through these dark mountains like 

the flame 
Of lightning through the tempest ! thou 

dost lie, — 
Thy giant brood of pines around thee cling- 
ing, _ _ 20 
Children of elder time, in whose devotion 
The chainless winds still come and ever 

came 
To drink their odors, and their mighty 

swinging 
To hear — an old and solemn harmony ; 
Thine earthly rainbows stretched across the 

sweep 
Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil 
Robes some unsculptured image; the 

strange sleep 
Which when the voices of the desert fail 
Wraps all in its own deep eternity; 
Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's commo- 
tion — 30 
A loud, lone sound no other sound can 

tame. 
Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless mo- 
tion, 
Thou art the path of that unresthig sound, 
Dizzy Ravine ! and when I gaze on thee, 
I seem as in a trance sublime and strange 
To muse on my own separate fantasy. 
My own, my human mind, which passively 
Now renders and receives fast influencings. 
Holding an unremitting interchange 
With the clear universe of things around; 
One legion of wild thoughts, whose wan- 
dering wings 41 
Now float above thy darkness, and now 

rest, 
Where that or thou art no unbidden guest, 
In the still cave of the witch Poesy, 
Seeking among the shadows that pass by — 
Ghosts of all things that are — some shade 

of thee, 
Some phantom, some faint image; till the 

breast 
From which they fled recalls them, thou 
art there ! 

Ill 

Some say that gleams of a remoter world 

Visit the soul in sleep, — that death is 
slumber, 50 

And that its shapes the busy thoughts out- 
number 

Of those who wake and live. I look on 
high; 



Has some unknown Omnipotence unfurled 
The veil of life and death ? or do I lie 
In dream, and does the mightier world of 

sleep 
Spread far around and inaccessibly 
Its circles ? for the very spirit fails, 
Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to 

steep 
That vanishes among the viewless gales ! 
Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky, 60 
Mont Blaiic appears, — still, snowy and 

serene — 
Its subject mountains their unearthly forms 
Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales 

between 
Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps. 
Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread 
And wind among the accumulated steeps; 
A desert peopled by the storms alone. 
Save when the eagle brings some hunter's 

bone, 
And the wolf tracks her there. How hid- 
eously 
Its shapes are heaped around ! rude, bare 
and high, 70 

Ghastly, and scarred, and riven. — Is this 

the scene 
Where the old Earthquake-dsemon taught 

her young 
Ruin ? Were these their toys ? or did a 

sea 
Of fire envelop once this silent snow ? 
None can reply — all seems eternal now. 
The wilderness has a mysterious tongue 
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith s<? 

mild, 
So solemn, so serene, that man may be 
But for such faith with Nature reconciled; 
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to re- 
peal 80 
Large codes of fraud and woe; not under- 
stood 
By all, but which the wise, and great, and 

good. 
Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel. 

IV 

The fields, the lakes, the forests and the 

streams, 
Ocean, and all the living things that dwell 
Within the daedal earth, lightning, and 

rain. 
Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane. 
The torpor of the year when feeble dreams 
Visit the hidden buds or dreamless sleep 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1817 



349 



Holds every future leaf and flower, the 

bound 90 

With which from that detested trance they 

leap, 
The works and ways of man, their death 

and birth, 
And that of him and all that his may be, — 
All things that move and breathe with toil 

and sound 
Are born and die, revolve, subside and 

swell; 
Power dwells apart in its tranquillity, 
Remote, serene, and inaccessible; — 
And this, the naked countenance of earth 
On which I gaze, even these primeval 

mountains. 
Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers 

creep, 100 

Like snakes that watch their prey, from 

their far fountains, 
Slow rolling on; there many a precipice 
Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power 
Have piled — dome, pyramid and pinnacle, 
A city of death, distinct with many a tower 
And wall impregnable of beaming ice ; 
Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin 
Is there, that from the boundaries of the 

sky 
Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are 

strewing 
Its destined path, or in the mangled soil 
Branchless and shattered stand; the rocks, 

drawn down m 

From yon remotest waste, have overthrown 
The limits of the dead and living world. 
Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling-place 
Of insects, beasts and birds, becomes its 

spoil. 
Their food and their retreat forever gone ; 
So much of life and joy is lost. The race 
Of man flies far in dread; his work and 

dwelling 



Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's 
stream. 

And their place is not known. Below, 
vast caves 120 

Shine in the rushing torrents' restless 
gleam. 

Which from those secret chasms in tumult 
welling 

Meet in the Vale; and one majestic River, 

The breath and blood of distant lands, for- 
ever 

Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves, 

Breathes its swift vapors to the circling air. 

V 

Mont Blanc yet gleams on high : the power 

is there. 
The still and solemn power of many sights 
And many sounds, and much of life and 

death. 
In the calm darkness of the moonless 

nights, 130 

In the lone glare of day, the snows descend 
Upon that Mountain; none beholds them 

there. 
Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun, 
Or the star-beams dart through them; 

winds contend 
Silently there, and heap the snow, with 

breath 
Rapid and strong, but silently ! Its home 
The voiceless lightning in these solitudes 
Keeps innocently, and like vapor broods 
Over the snow. The secret strength of 

things. 
Which governs thought, and to the infinite 

dome 140 

Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee ! 
And what were thou, and earth, and stars, 

and sea, 
If to the human mind's imaginings 
Silence and solitude were vacancy ? 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1817 



Mrs. Shelley, in her note on the poems of 
this year, summarizes Shelley's life at the time : 
* The very illness that oppressed, and the as- 
pect of death which had approached so near 
Shelley, appears to have kindled to yet keener 
life the spirit of poetry in his heart. The rest- 
less thoughts kept awake by pain clothed 
themselves in verse. Much was composed dur- 
ing this year. The Revolt of Islam, written 
and printed, was a great effort — Rosalind and 



Helen was begun — and the fragments and 
poems I can trace to the same period, show 
how full of passion and reflection were his sol- 
itary hours. 

' His readings this year were chiefly Greek. 
Besides the Hymns of Homer and the Iliad, 
he read the Dramas of -^schylus and Sopho' 
cles, the Symposium of Plato, and Arrian's 
Historia Indica. In Latin, Apuleius alone is 



350 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



named. In English, the Bible was his constant 
study ; he read a great portion of it aloud in 
the evening. Among these evening readings, 
I find also mentioned the Faery Queen ; and 
other modern works, the production of his con- 
temporaries, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Moore, 
and Byron. 

' His life was now spent more in thought than 
action — he had lost the eager spirit which be- 
lieved it could achieve what it projected for the 
benefit of mankind. And yet in the converse of 
daily life Shelley was far from being a melan- 
choly man. He was eloquent when philosophy, 
or politics, or taste were the subjects of con- 
versation. He was playful — and indulged in 
the wild spirit that mocked itself and others 
— not in bitterness, but in sport. The Au- 
thor of Nightmare Abbey [Peacock] seized on 
some points of his character and some habits 



of his life when he painted Scythrop. He was 
not addicted to " port or madeira," but in youth 
he had read of " Illuminati and Eleutherarchs," 
and believed that he possessed the power of 
operating an immediate change in the minds 
of men and the state of society. These wild 
dreams had faded ; sorrow and adversity had 
struck home ; but he struggled with despond- 
ency as he did with physical pain. There are 
few who remember him sailing paper boats, 
and watching the navigation of his tiny craft 
with eagerness — or repeating with wild energy 
The Ancient Mariner, and Southey's Old \Vo- 
man of Berkeley — but those who do, will re- 
collect that it was in such, and in the creations 
of his own fancy, when that was most daring 
and ideal, that he sheltered himself from the 
storms and disappointments, the pain and sor- 
row, that beset his life.' 



MARIANNE'S DREAM 

The dream here put into verse was told 
Shelley by Mrs. Hunt, the ' Marianne ' of the 
poem. It was composed at Marlow, and pub- 
lished by Hunt, The Literary Pocket-Book, 
1819. 

I 

A PALE dream came to a Lady fair, 
And said, ' A boon, a boon, I pray ! 

I know the secrets of the air; 

And things are lost in the glare of day, 

Which I can make the sleeping see. 

If they will pnt their trust in me. 

II 

* And thou shalt know of things unknown. 
If thou wilt let me rest between 

The veiny lids whose fringe is thrown 
Over thine eyes so dark and sheen.' 

And half in hope and half in fright 

The Lady closed her eyes so bright. 

Ill 

At first all deadly shapes were driven 
Tumultuously across her sleep, 

And o'er the vast cope of bending h-eaven 
All ghastly-visaged clouds did sweep; 

And the Lady ever looked to spy 

If the golden sun shone forth on high. 

IV 

And, as towards the east she turned, 
She saw aloft in the morning air, 

Which now with hues of sunrise burned, 
^■. great black Anchor rising there; 



And, wherever the Lady turned her eyes, 
It hung before her in the skies. 



The sky was blue as the summer sea, 
The depths were cloudless overhead. 

The air was calm as it could be. 

There was no sight or sound of dread, 

But that black Anchor floating still 

Over the piny eastern hill. 

VI 

The Lady grew sick with a weight oi 
fear 
To see that Anchor ever hanging, 
And veiled her eyes; she then did hear 
The sound as of a dim low clanging. 
And looked abroad if she might know 
Was it aught else, or but the flow 
Of the blood in her own veins, to and 
fro. 

VII 

There was a mist in the sunless air. 

Which shook as it were with an earth 
quake's shock, 

But the very weeds that blossomed there 
Were moveless, and each mighty rock 

Stood on its basis steadfastly; 

The Anchor was seen no more on high. 

VIII 

But piled around, with summits hid 

In lines of cloud at intervals. 
Stood many a mountain pyramid, 

Among whose everlasting walls 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1817 



351 



Two mighty cities shone, and ever 
Through the red. mist their domes did 
quiver. 

IX 

On two dread mountains, from whose 
crest 

Might seem the eagle for her brood 
Would ne'er have hung her dizzy nest, 

Those tower-encircled cities stood. 
A vision strange such towers to see, 
Sculptured and wrought so gorgeously, 
Where human art could never be. 

X 

And columns framed of marble white, 

And giant fanes, dome over dome 
Piled, and triumphant gates, all bright 

With workmanship, which could not come 
From touch of mortal instrument, 
Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent 
From its own shapes magnificent. 

XI 

But still the Lady heard that clang 

Filling the wide air far away; 
And still the mist whose light did hang 

Among the mountains shook alway; 
So that the Lady's heart beat fast, 
As, half in joy and half aghast. 
On those high domes her look she cast. 

XII 

Sudden from out that city sprung 

A light that made the earth grow red; 

Two flames that each with quivering 
tongue 
Licked its high domes, and overhead 

Among those mighty towers and fanes 

Dropped fire, as a volcano rains 

Its sulphurous ruin on the plains. 

XIII 

And hark ! a rush, as if the deep 

Had burst its bonds; she looked behind. 
And saw over the western steep 

A raging flood descend, and wind 
Through that wide vale; she felt no fear, 
But said within herself, ' 'T is clear 
These towers are Nature's own, and she 
To save them has sent forth the seao' 

XIV 

And now those raging billows came 
Where that fair Lady sate, and she 



Was borne towards the showering flame 

By the wild waves heaped tumultuouslyj 
And, on a little plank, the flow 
Of the whirlpool bore her to and fro. 

XV 

The flames were fiercely vomited 
From every tower and every dome, 

And dreary light did widely shed 

O'er that vast flood's suspended foam, 

Beneath the smoke which hung its night 

On the stained cope of heaven's light. 

XVI 

The plank whereon that Lady sate 

Was driven through the chasms, about 
and about. 
Between the peaks so desolate 

Of the drowning mountains, in and out. 
As the thistle-beard on a whirlwind sails — ' 
While the flood was filling those hollo\1 
valeSo 

XVII 

At last her plank an eddy crossed. 
And bore her to the city's wall. 

Which now the flood had reached almost; 
It might the stoutest heart appall 

To hear the fire roar and hiss 

Through the domes of those mighty 
palaces. 

XVIII 

The eddy whirled her round and round 
Before a gorgeous gate, which stood 

Piercing the clouds of smoke which bound 
Its aery arch with light like blood ; 

She looked on that gate of marble clear 

With wonder that extinguished fear; 

XIX 

For it was filled with sculptures rarest, 
Of forms most beautiful and strange. 

Like nothing human, but the fairest 
Of winged shapes, whose legions range 

Throughout the sleep of those that are, 

Like this same Lady, good and fair. 

XX 

And as she looked, still lovelier grew 
Those marble forms; — the sculptor sur^ 

Was a strong spirit, and the hue 
Of his own mind did there endure, 

After the touch, whose power had braided 

Such grace, was in some sad change faded 



352 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



XXI 



She looked, — the flames were dim, the 
flood 
Grew tranquil as a woodland river 
Winding through hills in solitude; 

Those marble shapes then seemed to 
quiver. 
And their fair limbs to float in motion, 
Like weeds mifolding in the ocean; 

XXII 

And their lips moved; one seemed to 
speak, 
When suddenly the mountains cracked, 
And through the chasm the flood did 
break 
With an earth-uplifting cataract; 
The statues gave a joyous scream, 
And on its wings the pale thin dream 
Lifted the Lady from the stream. 

XXIII 

The dizzy flight of that phantom pale 
Waked the fair Lady from her sleep, 

And she arose, while irom the veil 

Of her dark eyes the dream did creep; 

And she walked about as one who knew 

That sleep has sights as clear and true 

As any waking eyes can viewo 



TO CONSTANTIA 

SINGING 

This poem was addressed to Miss Clairraont, 
and the name Constantia was probably due to 
Shelley's admiration for the character of Con- 
stantia Dudley, in Charles Brockden Brown's 
Ormond. It was published by Mrs. Shelley, 
Posthumous PoemSj 1824. 



Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die, 
Perchance were death indeed ! — Con- 
stantia, turn ! 
In thy dark eyes a power like light doth 
lie. 
Even though the sounds which were thy 
voice, which burn 
Between thy lips, are laid to sleep; 

Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like 
odor it is yet. 
And from thy touch like fire doth leap. 
Even while I write, my burning cheeks 
are wet — 



Alas, that the torn heart can bleeds but 
not forget ! 

II 

A breathless awe, like the swift change 
Unseen but felt in youthful slumbers. 
Wild, sweet, but uucommunicably strange. 
Thou breathest now in fast ascending 
numbers. 
The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven 

By the enchantment of thy strain; 
And on my shoulders wings are woven 

To follow its sublime career 
Beyond the mighty moons that wane 

Upon the verge of Nature's utmost 

sphere, 
Till the world's shadowy walls are passed 
and disappear. 

Ill 

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul — it 
lingers 
O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling 
wings; 
The blood and life within those snowy 
fingers 
Teach witchcraft to the instrumental 
strings. 
My brain is wild, my breath comes 
quick — 
The blood is listening in my frame. 
And thronging shadows, fast and thick, 

Fall on my overflowing eyes; 
My heart is quivering like a flame; 

As morning dew, that in the sunbeam 

dies, 
I am dissolved in these consuming 
ecstasies. 

IV 

I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, 
Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, 
thy song 
Flows on, and fills all things with mel- 
ody. 
Now is thy voice a tempest swift and 
strong. 
On which, like one in trance upborne. 

Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep, 
Rejoicing like <a cloud of morn; 

Now 't is the breath of summer night, 
Which, when the starry waters sleep, 
Round western isles, with incense-blossoms 

bright. 
Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptu* 
oi-<s flighto 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1817 



353 



TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR 

The decree which deprived Shelley of the 
eustody of his children was pronounced in 
August. Mrs. Shelley writes : ' His heart, 
attuned to every kindly affection, was full of 
burning love for his offspring. No words can 
express the anguish he felt when his elder chil- 
dren were torn from him. In his first resent- 
ment against the Chancellor, on the passing of 
the decree, he had written a curse, in which 
there breathes, besides haughty indignation, 
all the tenderness of a father's love, which 
could imagine and fondly dwell upon its loss 
and the consequences.' It was published by 
Mrs. Shelley, in her first collected edition, 
1830. 

I 

Thy country's curse is on thee, darkest 
crest 
Of that foul, knotted, many-headed 
worm 
Which rends our Mother's bosom ! — 
Priestly Pest ! 
Masked Resurrection of a buried Form ! 

. II 

Thy country's curse is on thee ! Justice 
sold, 
Truth trampled, Nature's landmarks 
overthrown. 
And heaps of fraud-accumulated gold, 
Plead, loud as thunder, at Destruction's 
throne. 

Ill 

And, whilst that sure slow Angel, which 
aye stands 
Watching the beck of Mutability, 
Delays to execute her high commands, 
And, though a nation weeps, spares thine 
and thee, 

IV 

Oh, let a father's curse be on thy soul, 
And let a daughter's hope be on thy 
tomb; 
Be both, on thy gray head, a leaden cowl 
To weigh thee down to thine approach- 
ing doom ! 



f curse thee I By a parent's outraged 
love. 
By hopes long cherished and too lately 
lost, — 



By gentle feelings thou couldst never 
prove. 
By griefs which thy stern nature never 
crossed ; 

VI 

By those infantine smiles of happy light. 
Which were a fire within a stranger's 
hearth, 
Quenched even when kindled, — in un- 
timely night. 
Hiding the promise of a lovely birth; 

VII 

By those unpractised accents of young 
speech. 
Which he who is a father thought to 
frame 
To gentlest lore, such as the wisest teach — 
Thou strike the lyre of mind ! — oh, grief 
and shame ! 

VIII 

By all the happy see in children's growth. 
That undeveloped flower of budding 
years — 
Sweetness and sadness interwoven both. 
Source of the sweetest hopes and sad- 
dest fears — 

IX 

By all the days under an hireling's care. 
Of dull constraint and bitter heaviness, — 

Oh, wretched ye if ever any were, — 

Sadder than orphans, yet not fatherless ! 



By the false cant which on their innocent 
lips 
Must hang like poison on an opening 
bloom. 
By the dark creeds which cover with 
eclipse 
Their pathway from the cradle to the 
tomb — 

XI 
By thy most impious Hell, and all its 
terror; 
By all the grief, the madness, and the 
guilt 
Of thine impostures, which must be their 
error — 
That sand on which thy crumbling Power 
is built — 



354 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



XII 

By thy complicity with lust and hate — 
Thy thirst for tears — thy hunger after 
gold — 
The ready frauds which ever on thee 
wait — 
The servile arts in which thou hast grown 
old — 

XIII 

By thy most killing sneer, and by thy 
smile — 
By all the arts and snares of thy black 
den, 
And — for thou canst outweep the croco- 
dile- 
By thy false tears — those millstones 
braining men — 

XIV 

By all the hate which checks a father's 
love — 
By all the scorn which kills a father's 
care — 
By those most impious hands which dared 
remove 
Nature's high bounds — by thee — and 
by despair — 

XV 

Yes, the despair which bids a father 
groan, 
And cry, ' My children are no longer 
mine — 
The blood within those veins may be mine 
own, 
But, Tyrant, their polluted souls are 
thine ; ' — 

XVI 

I curse thee, though I hate thee not. — O 
slave ! 
If thou couldst quench the earth-consum- 
ing Hell 
Of which thou art a demon, on thy grave 
This curse should be a blessing. Fare 
thee well ! 

TO WILLIAM SHELLEY 

Williani Shelley was born at Bishopsg-ate, 
January 24, 1816, baptized at St.-Giles-in-the- 
Fields, March 9, 1818, died at Rome, June 7, 
1819. Mrs. Shelley notes : ' At one time, while 
thtt question was still pending, the Chancellor 



had said some words that seemed to intimate 
that iShelley should not be permitted the care 
of any of his children, and for a moment he 
feared that our infant son would be torn from 
us. He did not hesitate to resolve, if such 
were menaced, to abandon country, fortune, 
everything, and to escape with his child ; and 
I find some unfinished stanzas addressed to this 
son, whom afterwards we lost at Rome, written 
under the idea that we might suddenly be 
forced to cross the sea, so to preserve him. 
This poem, as well as the one previously 
quoted, were not written to exhibit the pangs 
of distress to the public ; they were the sponta- 
neous outbursts of a man who brooded over his 
wrongs and woes, and was impelled to shed the 
grace of his genius over the uncontrollable 
emotions of his heart.' The poem was pub- 
lished by Mrs. Shelley, in part, in her first col- 
lected edition, 1839, and entire, in the second, of 
the same year. 



The billows on the beach are leaping 
around it, 
The bark is weak and frail. 
The sea looks black, and the clouds that 
bound it 
Darkly strew the gale. 
Come with me, thou delightful child, 
Come with me — though the wave is wild, 
And the winds are loose, we must not stay, 
Or the slaves of the law may rend thee 
away. 

II 

They have taken thy brother and sister 
dear, 
They have made them unfit for thee; 
They have withered the smile and dried 
the tear 
Which should have been sacred to me. 
To a blighting faith and a cause of crime 
They have bound them slaves in youthly 

prime. 
And they will curse my name and thee 
Because we are fearless and free. 

Ill 

Come thou, beloved as thou art; 

Another sleepeth still 
Near thy sweet mother's anxious heart, 

Which thou with joy shalt fill, — 
With fairest smiles of wonder thrown 
On that which is indeed our own, 
And which in distant lands will be 
The dearest playmate unto thee. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1817 



355 



IV 

Fear not the tyrants will rule forever, 
Or the priests of the evil faith ; 

They stand on the brink of that raging 
river 
Whose waves they have tainted with 
death. 

It is fed from the depth of a thousand 
dells, 

Around them it foams and rages and swells; 

And their swords and their sceptres I float- 
ing see. 

Like wrecks on the surge of eternity. 



Rest, rest, and shriek not, thou gentle 
child ! 

The rocking of the boat thou fearest. 
And the cold spray and the clamor wild ? — 

There sit between us two, thou dear- 
est — 
Me and thy mother — well we know 
The storm at which thou trerablest so. 
With all its dark and hungry graves, 
Less cruel than the savage slaves 
Who hunt us o'er these sheltering waves. 

VI 

This hour will in thy memory 

Be a dream of days forgotten long; 
We soon shall dwell by tire azure sea 
Of serene and golden Italy, 
Or Greece, the Mother of the free; 

And I will teach thine infant tongue 
To call upon those heroes old 
In their own language, and will mould 
Thy growing spirit in the flame 
Of Grecian lore, that by such name 
A patriot's birthright thou mayst claim ! 

ON FANNY GODWIN 

Fanny Godwin, half-sister of Mary, com- 
mitted suicide by taking laudanum, at an inn in 
Swansea, October 9, 1816. Shelley had re- 
cently seen her in London. The poem was 
published by Mrs. Shelley in her first col- 
lected edition, 1839. 

Her voice did quiver as we parted. 

Yet knew I not that heart was broken 
From which it came, and I departed 
Heeding not the words then spoken. 
Misery — O Misery, 
This world is all too wide for thee. 



LINES 

Composed November 5, and published by 
Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. 



That time is dead forever, child, 
Drowned, frozen, dead forever ! 

We look on the past. 

And stare aghast 
At the spectres wailing, pale and ghastj 
Of hopes which thou and I beguiled 

To death on life's dark river. 

II 

The stream we gazed on then, rolled by; 
Its waves are unreturning; 

But we yet stand 

In a lone land. 
Like tombs to mark the memory 
Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee 

In the light of life's dim morning. 

DEATH 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumout 
Poems, 1824. 

They die — the dead return not. Misery 
Sits near an open grave and calls them 
over, 
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye. 
They are the names of kindred, friend 
and lover. 
Which he so feebly calls; they all are 

gone — 
Fond wretch, all dead ! those vacant names 
alone, 
This most familiar scene, my pain, 
These tombs, — alone remain. 

Misery, my sweetest friend, oh, weep no 
more ! 
Thou wilt not be consoled — I wonder 
not! 
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's 
door I 

Watch the calm sunset with them, and 
this spot 
Was even as bright and calm, but transi- 
tory, — 
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is 
hoary ; 
This most familiar scene, my pain, 
These tombs, — alone remain. 



3S6 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



SONNET. — OZYMANDIAS 

Published by Hunt, The Examiner, 1818. 

I MET a traveller from an antique land 

Who said: * Two vast and trunkless legs of 
stone 

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the 
sand. 

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose 
frown, 

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold com- 
mand. 

Tell that its sculptor well those passions 
read 

Which yet survive, stamped on these life- 
less things. 

The hand that mocked them and the heart 
that fed. 

And on the pedestal these words appear — 

" My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: 

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and de- 



spair 



I » 



Nothing beside remains. Round the de- 
cay 
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare 
The lone and level sands stretch far away.' 



LINES TO A CRITIC 
Published by Hunt, The Liberal, 1823. 



Honey from silkworms who can gather. 
Or silk from the yellow bee ? 

The grass may grow in winter weather 
As soon as hate in me. 

II 

Hate men who cant, and men who pray, 
And men who rail like thee; 

An equal passion to repay 
They are not coy like me. 

Ill 

Or seek some slave of power and gold, 
To be thy dear heart's mate; 

Thy love will move that bigot cold 
Sooner than me thy hate. 

IV 

A passion like the one I prove 

Cannot divided be; 
I hate thy want of truth and love — 

How should I then hate thee ? 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1818 



Mrs. Shelley describes the scenes and char- 
acter of this first year in Italy at length : ' I 
Capuccini was a villa built on the site of a 
Capuchin convent, demolished when the French 
suppressed religious houses ; it was situated on 
the very overhanging brow of a low hill at the 
foot of a range of higher ones. The house 
was cheerful and pleasant ; a vine-trellised 
walk, a pergola, as it is called in Italian, led 
from the hall door to a summer-house at the 
end of the garden, which Shelley made his 
study, and in which he began the Prometheus ; 
and here also, as he mentions in a letter, he 
wrote Julian and Maddalo ; a slight ravine, 
with a road in its depth, divided the garden 
from the hill, on which stood the ruins of the 
ancient castle of Este, whose dark massive wall 
gave forth an echo, and from whose ruined 
crevices, owls and bats flitted forth at night, 
as the crescent moon sunk behind the black 
and heavy battlements. We looked from the 
garden over the wide plain of Lombardy, 
bounded to the west by the far Apennines, 
while to the east, the horizon was lost in misty 
distance. After the picturesque but limited 
view of mountain, ravine, and chestnut wood 



at the baths of Lucca, there was something 
infinitely gratifying to the eye in the wide 
range of prospect commanded by our new 
abode. 

' Our first misfortune, of the kind from which 
we soon sujffered even more severely, happened 
here. Our little girl, an infant in whose small 
features 1 fancied that I traced great resem- 
blance to her father, showed symptoms of suf- 
fering from the heat of the climate. Teething 
increased her illness and danger. We were at 
Este, and when we became alarmed, hastened 
to Venice for the best advice. When we ar- 
rived at Fusina, we found that we had for- 
gotten our passport, and the soldiers on duty 
attempted to prevent our crossing the laguna ; 
but they could not resist Shelley's impetuosity 
at siich a moment. We had scarcely arrived 
at Venice, before life fled from the little suf- 
ferer, and we returned to Este to weep her 
loss. 

' After a few weeks spent in this retreat, 
which were interspersed by visits to Venice, 
we proceeded southward. We often hear of 
persons disappointed by a first visit to Italy. 
This was not Shelley's case — ;the aspect of itfl 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1818 



357 



nature, its sunny sky, its majestic storms ; of 
the luxuriant vegetation of the country, and 
the noble marble-built cities, enchanted him. 
The sight of the works of art was full [of] 
enjoyment and wonder ; he had not studied 
pictures or statues before ; he now did so 
with the eye of taste, that referred not to the 
rules of schools, but to those of nature and 
truth. The first entrance to Rome opened to 
him a scene of remains of antique grandeur 
that far surpassed his expectations ; and the 
unspeakable beauty of Naples and its en- 
virons added to the impression he received of 
the transcendent and glorious beauty of Italy. 
As I have said, he wrote long letters during 
the first year of our residence in this country, 
and these, when published, will be the best 
testimonials of his appreciation of the har- 
monious and beautiful in art and nature, and 
his delicate taste in discerning and describing 
them. 

' Our winter was spent at Naples. Here he 
wrote the fragments of Marenghi and The 
Woodman and the Nightingale, which he after- 
wards threw aside. At this time Shelley suf- 
fered greatly in health. He put himself imder 
the care of a medical man, who promised great 
things, and made him endure severe bodily 
pain, without any good results. Constant and 
poignant physical suffering exhausted him ; 
and though he preserved the appearance of 
cheerfulness, and often greatly enjoyed our 
wanderings in the environs of Naples, and our 



excursions on its sunny sea, yet many hours 
were passed when his thoughts, shadowed by 
illness, became gloomy, and then he escaped 
to solitude, and in verses, which he hid from 
fear of wounding me, poured forth morbid but 
too natural bursts of discontent and sadness. 
One looks back with unspeakable regret and 
gnawing remorse to such periods ; fancying 
that had one been more alive to the nature of 
his feelings, and more attentive to soothe them, 
such would not have existed — and yet en- 
joying, as he appeared to do, every sight or 
influence of earth or sky, it was difficult to 
imagine that any melancholy he showed was 
aught but the effect of the constant pain to 
which he was a martyr. 

' We lived in utter solitude — and such is 
often not the nurse of cheerfulness ; for then, 
at least with those who have been exposed to 
adversity, the mind broods over its sorrows too 
intently ; while the society of the enlightened, 
the witty, and the wise, enables us to forget 
ourselves by making us the sharers of the 
thoughts of others, which is a portion of the 
philosophy of happiness. Shelley never liked 
society in numbers, it harassed and wearied 
him ; but neither did he like loneliness, and 
usually when alone sheltered himself against 
memory and reflection, in a book. But with 
one or two whom he loved, he gave way to 
wild and joyous spirits, or in more serious 
conversation expounded his opinions with vi- 
vacity and eloquence.' 



SONNET: TO THE NILE 

This is the sonnet composed in competition 
with Hunt and Keats, on the same subject 
February 4. It was published in the St. James 
Magazine, 1876. 

Month after month the gathered rains de- 
scend 

Drenching yon secret ^Ethiopian dells; 

And from the desert's ice-girt pinnacles, 

Where Frost and Heat in strange em- 
braces blend 
On Atlas, fields of moist snow half de- 
pend; 

Girt there with blasts and meteors, Tem- 
pest dwells 

By Nile's aerial urn, with rapid spells 

Urging those waters to their mighty 
end. 
O'er Egypt's land of Memory floods are 
level, 

And they are thine, O Nile ! — and well 
thou knowest 



That soul-sustajning airs and blasts of 

evil. 
And fruits and poisons, spring where'er 

thou flowest. 
Beware, O Man ! for knowledge must to 

thee 
Like the great flood to Egypt ever be. 



PASSAGE OF THE APENNINES 

Composed May 4, and published by Mrs. 
Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. 

Listen, listen, Mary mine, 
To the whisper of the Apennine, 
It bursts on the roof like the thunder's roar, 
Or like the sea on a northern shore. 
Heard in its raging ebb and flow 
By the captives pent in the cave below. 
The Apennine in the light of day 
Is a mighty mountain dim and gray, 
Which between the earth and sky doth 
lay; 



358 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



But when night comes, a chaos dread 
On the dim starlight then is spread, 
And the Apennine walks abroad with the 
storm. 



THE PAST 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

Wilt thou forget the happy hours 
Which we buried in Love's sweet bow- 
ers, 
Heaping over their corpses cold 
Blossoms and leaves instead of mould ? 
Blossoms which were the joys that fell, 
And leaves, the hopes that yet re- 
main. 

Forget the dead, the past ? Oh, yet 
There are ghosts that may take revenge 

for it; 
Memories that make the heart a tomb, 
Regrets which glide through the spirit's 
gloom, 
And with ghastly whispers tell 
That joy, once lost, is pain. 



ON A FADED VIOLET 

Sent by Shelley, in a letter, to Miss Sophia 
Stacey, March 7, 1820 : ' I promised you what 
I cannot perform : a song' on singing : — there 
are only two subjects remaining. I have a few 
old stanzas on one which, though simple and 
rude, look as if they were dictated by the 
heart. — And so — if you tell no one whose they 
are, you are welcome to them. Pardon these 
dull verses from one who is dull — but who is 
not the less, ever yours, P. B. S.' It was pub- 
lished by Hunt, The Literary Pocket-Book, 
1821. 



The odor from the flower is gone, 

Which like thy kisses breathed on me; 

The color from the flower is flown. 
Which glowed of thee, and only thee ! 

II 

A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form, 
It lies on my abandoned breast. 

And mocks the heart, which yet is warm, 
With cold and silent rest. 



Ill 



I weep — my tears revive it not ; 

I sigh — it breathes no more on me; 
Its mute and uncomplaining lot 

Is such as mine should be. 



LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE 
EUGANEAN HILLS 

Composed at Este, in October, and possibly 
revised at Naples the following month. The 
passage on Byron was inserted after the poem 
had gone to the printer. It was published 
with Rosalind and Helen, 1819, and in the 
Preface Shelley says it ' was written after a 
day's excursion among those lovely mountains 
which surround what was once the retreat, and 
where is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch, If 
any one is inclined to condemn the insertion of 
the introductory lines, which image forth the 
sudden relief of a state of deep despondency 
by the radiant visions disclosed by the sudden 
burst of an Italian sunrise in autumn, on the 
highest peak of those delightful mountains, 1 
can only offer as my excuse, that they were 
not erased at the request of a dear friend, with 
whom added years of intercourse only add to 
my apprehension of its value, and who would 
have had more right than any one to complain, 
that she has not been able to extinguish in me 
the very power of delineating sadness,' 

Many a green isle needs must be 

In the deep, wide sea of misery, 

Or the mariner, worn and wan. 

Never thus could voyage on 

Day and night, and night and day, 

Drifting on his dreary way. 

With the solid darkness black 

Closing round his vessel's track; 

Whilst above, the sunless sky, 

Big with clouds, hangs heavily, lo 

And behind, the tempest fleet 

Hurries on with lightning feet. 

Riving sail, and cord, and plank, 

Till the ship has almost drank 

Death from the o'er-brimming deep. 

And sinks down, down — like that sleep 

When the dreamer seems to be 

Weltering through eternity; 

And the dim low line before 

Of a dark and distant shore 20 

Still recedes, as ever still, 

Longing with divided will 

But no power to seek or shun, 

He is ever drifted on 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1818 



;59 



O'er the unreposing wave 
To the haven of the grave. 
What, if there no friends will greet ? 
What, if there no heart will meet 
His with love's impatient beat ? 
Wander wheresoe'er he may, 30 

Can he dream before that day 
To find refuge from distress 
In friendship's smile, in love's caress ? 
Then 't will wreak him little woe 
Whether such there be or no. 
Senseless is the breast, and cold, 
Which relenting love would fold; 
Bloodless are the veins, and chill, 
W^hich the pulse of pain did fill; 
Every little living nerve 40 

That from bitter words did swerve 
Round the tortured lips and brow, 
Are Kke sapless leaflets now 
Frozen upon December's bough. 

On the beach of a northern sea 

Which tempests shake eternally, 

As once the wretch there lay to sleep. 

Lies a solitary heap, 

One white skull and seven dry bones. 

On the margin of the stones, 50 

Where a few gray rushes stand, 

Boundaries of the sea and land: 

Nor is heard one voice of wail 

But the sea-mews, as they sail 

O'er the billows of the gale; 

Or the whirlwind up and down 

Howling, like a slaughtered town 

When a king in glory rides 

Through the pomp of fratricides. 

Those unburied bones around 60 

There is many a mournful sound; 

There is no lament for him, 

Like a sunless vapor, dim. 

Who once clothed with life and thought 

What now moves nor murmurs not. 

Ay, many flowering islands lie 

In the waters of wide Agony. 

To such a one this morn was led 

My bark, by soft winds piloted. 

Mid the mountains Euganean 70 

I stood listening to the psean 

With which the legioned rooks did hail 

The sun's uprise majestical; 

Gathering round with wings all hoar, 

Through the dewy mist they soar 

Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 

Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, 



Flecked with fire and azure, lie 

In the unfathomable sky, 

So their plumes of purple grain, 80 

Starred with drops of golden rain, 

Gleam above the sunlight woods. 

As in silent multitudes 

On the morning's fitful gale 

Through the broken mist they sail, 

And the vapors cloven and gleaming 

Follow down the dark steep streaming, 

Till all is bright, and clear, and still. 

Round the solitary hill. 

Beneath is spread like a green sea 9a 

The waveless plain of Lombardy^ 

Bounded by the vaporous air. 

Islanded by cities fair. 

Underneath day's azure eyes. 

Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, 

A peopled labyrinth of walls, 

Amphitrite's destined halls. 

Which her hoary sire now paves 

With his blue and beaming waves. 

Lo ! the sun upsprings behind, joo 

Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined 

On the level quivering line 

Of the waters crystalline; 

And before that chasm of light. 

As within a furnace bright. 

Column, tower, and dome and spire. 

Shine like obelisks of fire. 

Pointing with inconstant motion 

From the altar of dark ocean 

To the sapphire-tinted skies; na 

As the flames of sacrifice 

From the marble shrines did rise 

As to pierce the dome of gold 

Where Apollo spoke of old. 

Sun-girt City ! thou hast been 
Ocean's child, and then his queen; 
Now is come a darker day, 
And thou soon must be his prey. 
If the power that raised thee here 
Hallow so thy watery bier. 120 

A less drear ruin then than now, 
With thy conquest-branded brow 
Stooping to the slave of slaves 
From thy throne among the waves, 
Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew 
Flies, as once before it flew. 
O'er thine isles depopulate. 
And all is in its ancient state. 
Save where many a palace-gate 
With green sea-flowers overgrown 13a 



3^0 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Like a rock of ocean's own, 

Topples o'er the abandoned sea 

As the tides change sullenly. 

The fisher on his watery way, 

Wandering at the close of day, 

Will spread his sail and seize his oar 

Till he pass the gloomy shore, 

Lest thy dead should, from their sleep 

Bursting o'er the starlight deep, 

Lead a rapid masque of death 140 

O'er the waters of his path. 

Those who alone thy towers behold 

Quivering through aerial gold, 

As I now behold them here, 

Would imagine not they were 

Sepulchres, where human forms, 

Like pollution-nourished worms. 

To the corpse of greatness cling, 

Murdered, and now mouldering. 

But if Freedom should awake 150 

In her omnipotence, and shake 

From the Celtic Anarch's hold 

All the keys of dungeons cold. 

Where a hundred cities lie 

Chained like thee, ingloriously. 

Thou and all thy sister band 

Might adorn this sunny land. 

Twining memories of old time 

With new virtues more sublime. 

If not, perish thou and they ! — 160 

Clouds which stain truth's rising day 

By her sun consumed away — 

Earth can spare ye; while like flowers, 

In the waste of years and hours, 

From your dust new nations spring 

With more kindly blossoming. 

Perish ! let there only be 

Floating o'er thy hearthless sea. 

As the garment of thy sky 

Clothes the world immortally, 170 

One remembrance, more sublime 

Than the tattered pall of time, 

Which scarce hides thy visage wan; — 

That a tempest-cleaving Swan 

Of the songs of Albion, 

Driven from his ancestral streams 

By the might of evil dreams. 

Found a nest in thee; and Ocean 

Welcomed him with such emotion 

That its joy grew his, and sprung 180 

From his lips like music flung 

O'er a mighty thunder-fit, 



Chastening terror. What though yet 

Poesy's unfailing River, 

Which through Albion winds forever 

Lashing with melodious wave 

Many a sacred poet's grave. 

Mourn its latest nursling fled ? 

What though thou with all thy dead 

Scarce can for this fame repay 19c 

Aught thine own ? oh, rather say 

Though thy sins and slaveries foul 

Overcloud a sun-like soul ? 

As the ghost of Homer clings 

Round Scamander's wasting springs; 

As divinest Shakespeare's uiight 

Fills Avon and the world with light 

Like omniscient power which he 

Imaged 'mid mortality; 

As the love from Petrarch's urn 200 

Yet amid yon hills doth burn, 

A quenchless lamp, by which the heart, 

Sees things unearthly ; — so thou art. 

Mighty spirit ! so shall be 

The City that did refuge thee ! 

Lo, the sun floats up the sky. 

Like thought-winged Liberty, 

Till the universal light 

Seems to level plain and height. 

From the sea a mist has spread, 210 

And the beams of morn lie dead 

On the towers of Venice now, 

Like its glory long ago. 

By the skirts of that gray cloud 

Many-doni^d Padua proud 

Stands, a peopled solitude. 

Mid the harvest-shining plain, 

Where the peasant heaps his grain 

In the garner of liis foe. 

And the milk-white oxen slow 220 

With the purple vintage strain, 

Heaped upon the creaking wain, 

That the brutal Celt may swill 

Drunken sleep with savage will; 

And the sickle to the sword 

Lies unchanged, though many a lord, 

Like a weed whose shade is poison. 

Overgrows this region's foison. 

Sheaves of whom are ripe to come 

To destruction's harvest-home. 23a 

Men must reap the things they sow. 

Force from force must ever flow. 

Or worse; but 'tis a bitter woe 

That love or reason cannot change 

The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN i8i8 



361 



Padua, thou within whose walls 

Those mute guests at festivals, 

Sou and Mother, Death and Sin, 

Played at dice for Ezzelin, 

Till Death cried, ' I win, I win ! ' 240 

And Sin cursed to lose the wager, 

But Death promised, to assuage her. 

That he would petition for 

Her to be made Vice-Emperor, 

When the destined years were o'er, 

Over all between the Po 

And the eastern Alpine snow. 

Under the mighty Austrian. 

Sin smiled so as Sin only can. 

And since that time, ay, long before, 250 

Both have ruled from shore to shore — 

That incestuous pair, who follow 

Tyrants as the sun the swallow. 

As Repentance follows Crime, 

And as changes follow Time. 

In thine halls the lamp of learning, 

Padua, now no more is burning; 

Like a meteor whose wild way 

Is lost over the grave of day, 

It gleams betrayed and to betray. 260 

Once remotest nations came 

To adore that sacred flame, 

When it lit not many a hearth 

On this cold and gloomy earth; 

Now new fires from antique light 

Spring beneath the wide world's might; 

But their spark lies dead in thee, 

Trampled out by tyranny. 

As the Norway woodman quells. 

In the depth of piny dells, 270 

One light flame among the brakes. 

While the boundless forest shakes. 

And its mighty trunks are torn 

By the fire thus lowly born; — 

The spark beneath his feet is dead. 

He starts to see the flames it fed 

Howling through the darkened sky 

With myriad tongues victoriously, 

And sinks down in fear ; — so thou, 

O Tyranny ! beholdest now 280 

Light around thee, and thou hearest 

The loud flames ascend, and fearest. 

Grovel on the earth ! ay, hide 

In the dust thy purple pride ! 

Noon descends around me now. 
'T is the noon of autumn's glow, 
When a soft and purple mist. 
Like a vaporous amethyst, 



Or an air-dissolved star 

Mingling light and fragrance, far 294 

From the curved horizon's bound 

To the point of heaven's profound 

Fills the overflowing sky. 

And the plains that silent lie 

Underneath; the leaves unsodden 

Where the infant frost has trodden 

With his morning-winged feet, 

Whose bright print is gleaming yet; 

And the red and golden vines, 

Piercing with their trellised lines 300 

The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; 

The dun and bladed grass no less, 

Pointing from this hoary tower 

In the windless air; the flower 

Glimmering at my feet; the line 

Of the olive-sandalled Apennine 

In the south dimly islanded; 

And the Alps, whose snows are spread 

High between the clouds and sun; 

And of living things each one; 31a 

And my spirit, which so long 

Darkened this swift stream of song, — 

Interpenetrated lie 

By the glory of the sky: 

Be it love, light, harmony, 

Odor, or the soul of all 

Which from heaven like dew doth fall, 

Or the mind which feeds this verse 

Peopling the lone universco 

Noon descends, and after noon 320 

Autumn's evening meets me soon. 

Leading the infantine moon 

And that one star, which to her 

Almost seems to minister 

Half the crimson light she brings 

From the sunset's radiant springs; 

And the soft dreams of the morn 

(Which like winged winds had borne 

To that silent isle, which lies 

Mid remembered agonies, 330 

The frail bark of this lone being) 

Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, 

And its ancient pilot, Pain, 

Sits beside the helm again. 

Other flowering isles must be 

In the sea of life and agony; 

Other spirits float and flee 

O'er that gulf: even now, perhaps, 

On some rock the wild wave wraps. 

With folding wings they waiting sit 340 

For my bark, to pilot it 



362 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



To some calm and blooming cove, 

Where for me, and those I love, 

May a windless bower be built, 

Far from passion, pain, and guilt. 

In a dell mid lawny hills. 

Which the wild sea-murmur fills. 

And soft sunshine, and the sound 

Of old forests echoing round. 

And the light and smell divine 350 

Of all flowers that breathe and shine. 

We may live so happy there, 

That the spirits of the air. 

Envying us, may even entice 

To our healing paradise 

The polluting multitude; 

But their rage would be subdued 

By that clime divine and calm. 

And the winds whose wings rain balm 

On the uplifted soul, and leaves 360 

Under which the bright sea heaves; 

While each breathless interval 

In their whisperings musical 

The inspired soul supplies 

With its own deep melodies. 

And the love which heals all strife, 

Circling, like the breath of life, 

All things in that sweet abode 

With its own mild brotherhoods 

They, not it, would change; and soon 370 

Every sprite beneath the moon 

Would repent its envy vain. 

And the earth grow young againo 



INVOCATION TO MISERY 

Published by Medwin, The Athenceum, 1832. 
He wove about it a mystery of a lady who 
followed Shelley to Naples and there died in 
hopeless love for him. The tale has never been 
substantiated, but his various biographers take 
note of it, in connection with his depression at 
Naples. The poem itself is purely ideal, and 
such as he might have written at any time. 



Come, be happy ! — sit near me, 
Shadow-vested Misery; 
Coy, unwilling, silent bride, 
Mourning in thy robe of pride, 
Desolation — deified ! 

II 

Come, be happy ! — sit near mCo 
Sad as I may seem to thee, 



I am happier far than thou, 
Lady, whose imperial brow 
Is endiademed with woe. 



III 



Misery ! we have known each other, 
Like a sister and a brother 
Living in the same lone home, 
Many years — we must live some 
Hours or ages yet to come. 



IV 



'T is an evil lot, and yet 

Let us make the best of it; 

If love can live when pleasure dies, 

We two will love, till in our eyes 

This heart's Hell seem Paradise^ 



Come, be happy ! — lie thee down 
On the fresh grass newly mown. 
Where the grasshopper doth sing' 
Merrily — one joyous thing 
In a world of sorrowing, 

VI 

There our tent shall be the willow. 

And mine arm shall be thy pillow; 

Sounds and odors, sorrowful 

Because they once were sweet, shalU 

lull 
Us to slumber, deep and dulL 

VII 

Ha ! thy frozen pulses flutter 

With a love thou darest not utter. 

Thou art murmuring — thou art weep 

ing — 
Is thine icy bosom leaping 
While my burning heart lies sleeping ? 

VIII 

Kiss me; — oh ! thy lips are cold; 
Round my neck thine arms enfold — - 
They are soft, but chill and dead; 
And thy tears upon my head 
Burn like points of frozen lead 

IX 

Hasten to the bridal bed — 
Underneath the grave 'tis spread: 
In darkness may our love be hid, 
Oblivion be our coverlid — 
We may rest, and none forbid. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1818 



363 



Clasp me, till our hearts be grown 
Like two shadows into one ; 
Till this dreadful transport may 
Like a vapor fade away 
In the sleep that lasts alway. 



XI 



We may dream, in that long sleep, 
That we are not those who weep; 
E'en as Pleasure dreams of thee, 
Life-deserting Misery, 
Thou mayst dream of her with me. 



XII 

Let us laugh, and make our mirth, 

At the shadows of the earth, 

As dogs bay the moonlight clouds, 

Which, like spectres wrapped in shrouds. 

Pass o'er nio^ht in multitudes. 

XIII 

All the wide world beside us 
Show like multitudinous 
Puppets passing from a scene; 
What but mockery can they mean. 
Where I am — where thou hast been ? 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES 

This poem, in the same mood as the preced- 
ing-, was composed in December, and published 
by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. 



The sun is warm, the sky is clear. 

The waves are dancing fast and bright; 
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 

The purple noon's transparent might; 

The breath of the moist earth is light 
Around its unexpanded buds; 

Like many a voice of one delight. 
The winds, the birds, the ocean floods. 
The City's voice itself is soft like Soli- 
tude's. 

II 

I see the Deep's untrampled floor 

With green and purple sea-weeds 
strown ; 
I see the waves upon the shore. 

Like light dissolved in star-showers, 
thrown; 



I sit upon the sands alone — 
The lightning of the noontide ocean 

Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion, 
How sweet ! did any heart now share in my 
emotion. 

Ill 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health. 

Nor peace within nor calm around, 
Nor that content surpassing wealth 
The sage in meditation found. 
And walked with inward glory 
crowned — 
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor lei- 
sure. 
Others I see whom these surround — 
Smiling they live, and call life plea- 
sure ; — 
To me that cup has been dealt in another 
measure. 

IV 

Yet now despair itself is mild. 

Even as the winds and waters are; 

I could lie down like a tired child. 
And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne and yet must bear, 

Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
And I might feel in the warm air 

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last mo- 
notony. 



Some might lament that I were cold. 

As I when this sweet day is gone. 
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 

Insults with this untimely moan; 

They might lament — for I am one 
Whom men love not, — and yet regret. 

Unlike this day, which, when the sun 
Shall on its stainless glory set, 
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in 
memory yet. 

SONNET 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

Lift not the painted veil which those who 

live 
Call Life ; though unreal shapes be pictured 

there. 



3^4 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And it but mimic all we would believe 
With colors idly spread, — behind, lurk 

Fear 
And Hope, twin Destinies, who ever weave 
Their shadows o'er the chasm sightless and 

drear. 
I knew one who had lifted it — he sought. 
For his lost heart was tender, things to 

love, 



But fouud theiu not, alas ! nor was there 

aught 
The world contains the which he could ap- 
prove. 
Through the unheeding many he did move, 
A splendor among shadows, a bright blot 
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove 
For truth, and like the Preacher found it 
not. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1819 



This was the year of the composition of 
Prometheus Unbound, The Cenci, The Mask of 
Anarchy, and Peter Bell The Third. Its his- 

LINES 

WRITTEN DURING THE CASTLEREAGH 
ADMINISTRATION 

Published by Med win, The Athenceum, 1832. 

I 

Corpses are cold in the tomb — 
Stones on the pavement are dumb — 
Abortions are dead in the womb. 
And their mothers look pale, like the death- 
white shore 
Of Albion, free no more. 

II 

Her sons are as stones in the way — 
They are masses of senseless clay — 
They are trodden and move not 
away — 
The abortion with which she travaileth 
Is Liberty, smitten to death 

III 

Then trample and dance, thou Op- 
pressor ! 

For thy victim is no redresser — 

Thou art sole lord and possessor 
Of her corpses, and clods, and abortions 
— they pave 

Thy path to the grave. 

IV 

Hearest thou the festival din 
Of Death and Destruction and Sin, 
And Wealth crying, Havoc ! within ? 
'Tis the Bacchanal triumph that makes 
truth dumb, — 
Thine Epithalamiumo 



tory has already been given with sufficient'-. 
fulness under these titles, from Mrs. Shelley's 
notes. 

V 

Ay, marry thy ghastly wife ! 
Let Fear and Disquiet and Strife 
Spread thy couch in the chamber of 

Life; 
Marry Ruin, thou Tyrant ! and Hell be thy 

guide 
To the bed of the bride ! 



SONG 

TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND 

This poem, like all the group, is to be ascribed 
to Shelley's renewed political excitement ow- 
ing to the Manchester Massacre. It was pub- 
lished by Mrs. Shelley, in her first collected 
edition, 1839. 



Men of England, wherefore plough 
For the lords who lay ye low ? 
Wherefore weave with toil and care 
The rich robes your tyrants wear ? 

II 

Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save, 
From the cradle to the grave, 
Those ungrateful drones who would 
Drain your sweat — nay, drink your 
blood ? 

in 

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge 
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge. 
That these stingless drones may spoil 
The forced produce of your toil ? 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1819 



365 



IV 



Have ye leisure, comfort, calm, 
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm ? 
Or what is it ye buy so dear 
With your pain and with your fear ? 



The seed ye sow, another reaps; 
The wealth ye find, another keeps; 
The robes ye weave, another wears; 
The arms ye forge, another bears. 

VI 

Sow seed, — but let no tyrant reap ; 
Find wealth, — let no impostor heap; 
Weave robes, — let not the idle wear; 
Forge arms, — in your defence to bear. 

VII 

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells; 

In halls ye deck, another dwells. 

Why shake the chains ye wrought ? Ye 

see 
The steel ye tempered glance on ye. 

VIII 

With plough and spade, and hoe and 

loom. 
Trace your grave, and build your tomb. 
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair 
England be your sepulchre. 



TO SIDMOUTH AND CASTLE- 
REAGH 

Published by Medwin, The Athenceum, 1832. 

I 

As from an ancestral oak 

Two empty ravens sound their clarion, 
Yell by yell, and croak by croak. 
When they scent the noonday smoke 

Of fresh human carrion: — 

II 

As two gibbering night-birds flit 
From their bowers of deadly yew 

Through the night to frighten it. 

When the moon is in a fit, 

And the stars are none, or few: — 

III 

As a shark and dog-fish wait, 
Under an Atlantic isle, 



For the negro-ship, whose freight 
Is the theme of their debate, 

Wrinkling their red gills the while — 

IV 

Are ye, two vultures sick for battle, 

Two scorpions under one wet stone. 
Two bloodless wolves whose dry throats 

rattle. 
Two crows perched on the murrained cat- 
tle. 
Two vipers tangled into one. 

ENGLAND IN 1819 

This sonnet was sent by Shelley to Hunt, 
November 23, 1819, — ' I don't expect you to 
publish it, but you may show it to whom you 
please.' It was published by Mrs. Shelley, in 
her first collected edition, 1839. 

An old, mad, blind, despised and dying 

king; 
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who 

flow 
Through public scorn — mud from a muddy 

spring; ^ 
Rulers, who neither see, nor feel, nor know^ 
But leech-like to their fainting country 

cling. 
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a 

blow; 
A people starved and stabbed in the un- 

tilled field; 
An army which liberticide and prey 
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who 

wield ; 
Golden arid sanguine laws which tempt and 

slay; 
Religion Christless, Godless — a book 

sealed; 
A Senate — Time's worst statute unrepealed, 
Are graves from which a glorious Phantom 

may 
Burst to illumine our tempestuous day. 

NATIONAL ANTHEM 

Published by Mrs. Shelley in her second col 
lected edition, 1839. 



God prosper, speed, and save, 
God raise from England's grave 
Her muT-dered Queen I 



366 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Pave with swift victory 
The steps of Liberty, 
Whom Britons own to be 
Immortal Queen. 

II 

See, she comes throned on high, 
On swift Eternity, 

God save the Queen ! 
Millions on millions wait 
Firm, rapid, and elate, 
On her majestic state ! 

God save the Queen ! 

Ill 

She is thine own pure soul 
Moulding the mighty whole, — 

God save the Queen ! 
She is thine own deep love 
Rained down from heaven above. 
Wherever she rest or move, 

God save our Queen ! 

IV 

Wilder her enemies 

In their own dark disguise, — 

God save our Queen ! 
All earthly things that dare 
Her sacred name to bear. 
Strip them, as kings are, bare; 

God save the Queen ! 



Be her eternal throne 
Built in our hearts alone, — 

God save the Queen ! 
Let the oppressor hold 
Canopied seats of gold ; 
She sits enthroned of old 

O'er our hearts Queen. 

VI 

Lips touched by seraphim 
Breathe out the choral hymn, — - 

God save the Queen ! 
Sweet as if angels sang. 
Loud as that trumpet's clang, 
Wakening the world's dead gang, 

God save the Queen ! 



ODE TO HEAVEN 

Composed as early as December, and pub- 
lished with Prometheus Unbound, 1820. Mrs. 



Shelley writes as follows : ' Shelley was a dis- 
ciple of the immaterial philosophy of Berkeley. 
This theory g-ave unity and grandeur to his 
ideas, while it opened a wide field for his 
imagination. The creation, such as it was 
perceived by his mind — a unit in immensity, 
was slight and narrow compared with the in- 
terminable forms of thought that might exist 
beyond, to be perceived perhaps hereafter by 
his own mind ; all of which are perceptible to 
other minds that fill the universe, not of space 
in the material sense, but of infinity in the 
immaterial one. Such ideas are, in some de- 
gree, developed in his poem entitled Heaven : 
and when he makes one of the interlocutors 
exclaim, 

' ' Peace ! the abyss is wreathed in scorn 
Of thy presumption, atom-born " 

he expresses his despair of being able to con- 
ceive, far less express, all of variety, majesty, 
and beauty, which is veiled from our imperfect 
senses in the unknown realm, the mystery of 
which his poetic vision sought in vain to pene- 
trate.' 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS 
FIRST SPIRIT 

Palace.roof of cloudless nights ! 
Paradise of golden lights ! 

Deep, immeasurable, vast. 
Which art now, and which wert then. 

Of the present and the past. 
Of the eternal where and when, 

Presence-chamber, temple, home, 

Ever-canopying dome 

Of acts and ages yet to come ! 

Glorious shapes have life in thee, 
Earth, and all earth's company; 

Living globes which ever throng 
Thy deep chasms and wildernesses; 

And green worlds that glide along; 
And swift stars with flashing tresses;* 

And icy moons most cold and bright 

And mighty suns beyond the night, 

Atoms of intensest light. 

Even thy name is as a god. 
Heaven ! for thou art the abode 

Of that power which is the glass 
Wherein man his nature sees. 

Generations as they pass 
Worship thee with bended knees. 

Their unremaining gods and they 

Like a river roll away; 

Thou remainest such alway. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1819 



367 



SECOND SPIRIT 

Thou art but the mind's first chamber, 

Round which its young fancies clamber, 
Like weak insects in a cave, 

Lighted up by stalactites; 
But the portal of the grave, 

Where a world of new delights 
Will make thy best glories seem 
But a dim and noonday gleam 
From the shadow of a dream ! 

THIRD SPIRIT 

Peace ! the abyss is wreathed with scorn 
At your presumption, atom-born ! 

What is heaven ? and what are ye 
Who its brief expanse inherit ? 

What are suns and spheres which flee 
With the instinct of that Spirit 

Of which ye are but a part ? 

Drops which Nature's mighty heart 

Drives through thinnest veins. Depart ! 

What is heaven ? a globe of dew, 

Filling in the morning new 

Some eyed flower whose young leaves 
waken 

On an unimagined world; 
Constellated suns unshaken. 

Orbits measureless, are furled 
In that frail and fading sphere, 
With ten millions gathered there, 
To tremble, gleam, and disappear. 



AN EXHORTATION 

Shelley writes to Mrs. Gisborne, May 8, 
1820, concerning' this poem : ' As an excuse for 
mine and Mary's incurable stupidity, I send 
a little thing about poets, which is itself a 
kind of excuse for Wordsworth.' It was pub- 
lished with Prometheus Unbound, 1820. 

Chameleons feed on light and air; 

Poets' food is love and fame; 
If in this wide world of care 

Poets could but find the same 
With as little toil as they, 

Would they ever change their hue 

As the light chameleons do. 
Suiting it to every ray 

Twenty times a day ? 

Poets are on this cold earth, 
As chameleons might be, 



Hidden from their early birth 

In a cave beneath the sea. 
Where light is, chameleons change; 

Where love is not, poets do; 

Fame is love disguised; if few 
Find either, never think it strange 
That poets range. 

Yet dare not stain with wealth or power 

A poet's free and heavenly mind. 
If bright chameleons should devour 

Any food but beams and wind. 
They would grow as earthly soon 

As their brother lizards are. 

Children of a sunnier star, 

Spirits from beyond the moon, 

Oh, refuse the boon ! 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND 

Shelley describes in a note the circumstances 
under which this ode was composed : ' This 
poem was conceived and chiefly written in a 
wood that skirts the Arno, near Florence, and 
on a day when that tempestuous wind, whose 
temperature is at once mild and animating-, 
was collecting the vapors which pour down the 
autumnal rains. They began, as I foresaw, at 
sunset with a violent tempest of hail and rain, 
attended by that magnificent thunder and light- 
ning peculiar to the Cisalpine regions. 

' The phenomenon alluded to at the conclu- 
sion of the third stanza is well known to nat- 
uralists. The veg-etation at the bottom of the 
sea, of rivers, and of lakes, sympathizes with 
that of the land in the change of seasons, and 
is consequently influenced by the winds which 
announce it.' It was published with Prome-^ 
theus Unbound, 1820. 



O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Au- 
tumn's being. 

Thou, from whose unseen presence the 
leaves dead 

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter 
fleeing, 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou. 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and 

low. 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sistei* of the Spring shall blow 



:CS 



^riSCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and 

fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in 

air) 
With living hues and odors plain and hill : 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ; 
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear ! 

II 

Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's 

commotion, 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves 

are shed. 
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven 

and Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning: there are 

spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the 

head 

Of some fierce Msenad, even from the dim 

verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou 

dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing 

night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre. 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere 
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: 
oh, hear ! 

Ill 

Thou who didst waken from his summer 

dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline 

streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day. 

All overgrown with azure moss and flow- 
ers 

So sweet the sense faints picturing them ! 
thou 

For whose path the Atlantic's level pow- 
ers 



Cleave themselves into chasms, while far 

below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which 

wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with 

fear, 
And tremble and despoil themselves : oh, 

hear ! 

IV 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and 
share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over 

heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed 
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have 

striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and 

bowed 
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and 

proud. 



Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone. 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou. Spirit 

fierce. 
My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like withered leaves to quicken a new 

birth ! 
And, by the incantation of this verse. 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, mv words among man- 
kind ! 
Be through my lips to unawakened earth 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1S19 



369 



The trumpet of a prophecy ! O Wind, 
If Winter comes, can Spring be far be- 
hind ? 

AN ODE 

WRITTEN OCTOBER, 1819, BEFORE THE 
SPANIARDS HAD RECOVERED THEIR 
LIBERTY 

Published with Prometheus Unbound, 1820. 
Mrs. Shelley's note exhibits the state of Shel- 
ley's mind in his efforts to arouse and agitate 
among' the people : ' Shelley loved the people, 
and respected them as often more virtuous, as 
always more suffering, and, therefore, more de- 
serving of sympathy, than the great. He be- 
lieved that a clash between the two classes of 
society was inevitable, and he eagerly ranged 
himself on the people's side. He had an idea 
of publishing a series of poems adapted ex- 
pressly to commemorate their circumstances 
and wrongs — he wrote a few, but in those 
days of prosecution for libel they could not be 
printed. They are not among the best of his 
productions, a writer being always shackled 
when he endeavors to write down to the com- 
prehension of those who could not understand 
or feel a highly imaginative style ; but they 
show his earnestness, and with what heartfelt 
compassion he went home to the direct point 
of injury — that oppression is detestable, as 
being the parent of starvation, nakedness, and 
ignorance. Besides these outpourings of com- 
passion and indignation, he had meant to adorn 
the cause he loved with loftier poetry of glory 
and triumph — such is the scope of the Ode to 
the Assertors of Liberty. He sketched also a new 
version of our national anthem, as addressed to 
Liberty.' 

Arise, arise, arise ! 
There is blood on the earth that denies 
ye bread ! 
Be your wounds like eyes 
To weep for the dead, the dead, the dead. 
What other grief were it just to pay ? 
Your sons, your wives, your brethren, were 

they ! 
Who said they were slain on the battle- 
day? 

Awaken, awaken, awaken ! 
The slave and the tyrant are twin-born 
foes. 
Be the cold chains shaken 
To the dust where your kindred repose, 
repose. 



Their bones in the grave will start and 

move 
When they hear the voices of those they 

love 
Most loud in the holy combat above. 

Wave, wave high the banner. 
When Freedom is riding to conquest by! 

Though the slaves that fan her 
Be Famine and Toil, giving sigh for 
sigh. 
And ye who attend her imperial car. 
Lift not your hands in the banded war 
But in her defence whose children ye are. 

Glory, glory, glory, 
To those who have greatly suffered and 
done ! 
Never name in story 
Was greater than that which ye shall 
have won. 
Conquerors have conquered their foes alone^ 
Whose revenge, pride, and power, they 

have overthrown. 
Ride ye, more victorious, over your own. 

Bind, bind every brow 
With crownals of violet, ivy, and pine ! 

Hide the blood-stains now 
With hues which sweet nature has made 
divine — 
Green strength, azure hope, and eternity; 
But let not the pansy among them be — 
Ye were injured, and that means memory. 



ON THE MEDUSA OF LEO- 
NARDO DA VINCI 

IN THE FLORENTINE GALLERY 

Composed at Florence, in the latter part of 
the year, and published by Mrs. Shelley, Post- 
humous Poems, 1824. 



It lieth, gazing on the midnight sky, 
Upon the cloudy mountain peak supine; 

Below, far lands are seen tremblingly; 
Its horror and its beauty are divine. 

Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie 
Loveliness like a shadow, from which 
shine. 

Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath, 

The agonies of anguish and of death. 



31^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



II 

Yet it is less the horror than the grace 
Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone, 

Whereon the lineaments of that dead face 
Are graven, till the characters be grown 

Into itself, and thought no more can trace; 
'T is the melodious hue of beauty thrown 

Athwart the darkness and the glare of 
pain. 

Which humanize and harmonize the strain. 

Ill 

And from its head as from one body grow, 

As grass out of a watery rock. 

Hairs which are vipers, and they curl and 
flow 
And their long tangles in each other 
lock, 
And with unending involutions show 

Their mailed radiance, as it were to 
mock 
The torture and the death within, and saw 
The solid air with many a ragged jaw. 

IV 

And, from a stone beside, a poisonous eft 
Peeps idly into those Gorgonian eyes; 

Whilst in the air a ghastly bat, bereft 
Of sense, has flitted with a mad surprise 

Out of the cave this hideous light had 
cleft. 
And he comes hastening like a moth that 
hies 

After a taper; and the midnight sky 

Flares, a light more dread than obscurity. 



'T is the tempestuous loveliness of terror; 
For from the serpents gleams a brazen 
glare 
Kindled by that inextricable error. 

Which makes a thrilling vapor of the air 
Become a and ever-shifting mirror 

Of all the beauty and the terror there — 
A woman's countenance, with serpent 

locks. 
Gazing in death on heaven from those wet 
rocks. 



THE INDIAN SERENADE 

This poem, erroneously said to have been 
composed for Mrs. Williams and ' adapted to 
the celebrated Persian air sung by the Knautch 



g-irls, Tazee he tazee no be no,'' was given to Miss 
Sophia Stacey in 1819. Several versions of it 
exist. Browning's account of deciphering- one 
of them is interesting : he writes to Hunt, Octo- 
ber 6, 1857 : ' Is it not strange that I should 
have transcribed for the first time last night 
the Indian Serenade that, together with some 
verses of Metastasio, accompanied that book ? 
[the volume of Keats found in Shelley's pocket 
and burned with his body] — that I should 
have been reserved to tell the present posses- 
sor of them, to whom they were given by Cap- 
tain Roberts, what the poem was, and that it 
had been published ? It is preserved religiously ; 
but the characters are all but illegible, and I 
needed a good magnifying-glass to be quite 
sure of such of them as remain. The end is 
that I have rescued three or four variations in 
the reading of that divine little poem — as one 
reads it, at least, in the Posthumous PoemsJ' 
It was published by Hunt, The Liberal, 1822. 



I ARISE from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night. 
When the winds are breathing low, 
And the stars are shining bright; 
I arise from dreams of thee, 
And a spirit in my feet 
Hath led me — who knows how ? 
To thy chamber window, sweet ! 

II 

The wandering airs, they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream; 
The champak odors fail 
Like sweet thoughts in a dream; 
The nightingale's complaint, 
It dies upon her heart. 
As I must die on thine, 
Oh, beloved as thou art ! 

Ill 

Oh, lift me from the grass ! 
I die ! I faint ! I fail ! 
Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
My heart beats loud and fast. 
Oh ! press it close to thine again. 
Where it will break at last. 



TO SOPHIA 

Mrs. Shelley describes the lady to whom 
these lines are addressed, in a letter to Mrs 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



371 



Gisborne, December 1, 1819 : ' There are some 
ladies come to this house who knew Shelley's 
family : the younger one was entousiasm^e to 
see him. . . . The young-er lady was a ward 
of one of Shelley's uncles. She is lively and 
unaffected. She sings well for an English 
dibutante and, if she would learn the scales, 
would sing exceedingly well, for she has a 
sweet voice. ' Miss Sophia Stacey was a ward 
of Mr. Parker, of Bath, an uncle by marriage 
of Shelley. The poem was published by Ros- 
setti, 1870. 



Thou art fair, and few are fairer 
Of the nymphs of earth or ocean; 

They are robes that fit the wearer — 
Those soft limbs of thine, whose mo- 
tion 

Ever falls and shifts and glances 

As the life within them dances. 

II 

Thy deep eyes, a double Planet, 

Gaze the wisest into madness 
With soft clear fire; the winds that fan 
it 

Are those thoughts of tender gladness 
Which, like zephyrs on the billow. 
Make thy gentle soul their pillow. 

Ill 

If, whatever face thou paintest 

In those eyes, grows pale with pleasure. 
If the fainting soul is faintest 

When it hears thy harp's wild measure, 



Wonder not that when thou speakest 
Of the weak my heart is weakest. 

IV 

As dew beneath the wind of morning. 
As the sea which whirlwinds waken. 

As the birds at thunder's warning. 
As aught mute yet deeply shaken, 

As one who feels an unseen spirit, — 

Is my heart when thine is near it. 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY 
Published by Hunt, The Indicator, 1819. 

I 

The fountains mingle with the river, 

And the rivers with the ocean; 
The winds of heaven mix forever 

With a sweet emotion; 
Nothing in the world is single; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle: 

Why not I with thine ? 

II 

See the mountains kiss high heaven. 

And the waves clasp one another; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth. 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea: 
What are all these kissings worth, 

If thou kiss not me ? 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



Mrs. Shelley gives in brief passages the ac- 
count of the various removals of this year, and 
of Shelley's general state : ' There was some- 
thing in Florence that disagreed excessively 
with his health, and he suffered far more pain 
than usual ; so much so that we left it sooner 
than we intended, and removed to Pisa, where 
we had some friends, and, above all, where we 
could consult the celebrated Vacck, as to the 
cause of Shelley's sufferings. He, like every 
other medical man, could only guess at that, 
and gave little hope of immediate relief ; he 
enjoined him to abstain from all physicians 
and medicine, and to leave his complaint to 
nature. As he had vainly consulted medical 
men of the highest repute in England, he was 
easily persuaded to adopt this advice. Pain 
and ill-health followed him to the end, but the 



residence at Pisa agreed with him better than 
any other, and there in consequence we re- 
mained. . . . 

' We spent the summer at the baths of San 
Giuliano, four miles from Pisa. These baths 
were of great use to Shelley in soothing his 
nervous irritability. We made several excur- 
sions in the neighborhood. The country around 
is fertile, and diversified and rendered pictur- 
esque by ranges of near hills and more distant 
mountains. The peasantry are a handsome, in- 
telligent race, and there was a gladsome sunny 
heaven spread over us, that rendered home and 
every scene we visited cheerful and bright. . . . 

' We then removed to Pisa, and took up our 
abode there for the winter. The extreme 
mildness of the climate suited Shelley, and his 
solitude was enlivened by an intercourse with 



372 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



several intimate friends. Chance cast iis, 
strangely enoug-h, on this quiet, half-unpeopled 
town ; but its very peace suited Shelley, — its 
river, the near mountains, and not distant sea. 
added to its attractions, and were the objects 
of many delightful excursions. We feared the 
south of Italy, and a hotter climate, on account 
of our child ; our former bereavement inspiring 
us with terror. We seemed to take root here, 
and moved little afterwards ; often, indeed, 



entertaining projects for visiting other parts 
of Italy, but still delaying. But for our fears 
on account of our child, I believe we should 
have wandered over the world, both being 
passionately fond of travelling. But human 
life, besides its great unalterable necessities, 
is ruled by a thousand Liliputian ties, that 
shackle at the time, although it is difficult to 
account afterwards for their influence over our 
destiny.' 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT 

Composed at Pisa, as early as March, and 
published with Prometheus Unbound, 1820. 
Shelley afterward identified Mrs. Williams as 
' the exact antitype of the lady I described in 
The Sensitive Plant, though this must have 
been a jmre anticipated cognition, as it was 
written a year before I knew her.' 

PART FIRST 

A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, 
And the young winds fed it with silver 

dew, 
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the 

light. 
And closed them beneath the kisses of 

Night. 

And the Spring arose on the garden fair, 
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; 
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark 

breast 
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 

But none ever trembled and panted with 

bliss 
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness. 
Like a doe in the noontide with love's 

sweet want, n 

As the companionlesB Sensitive Plant. 

The snowdrop, and then the violet, 

Arose from the ground with warm rain 
wet, 

And their breath was mixed with fresh 
odor, sent 

From the turf, like the voice and the in- 
strument. 

Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip 

tall, 
And narcissi, the fairest among them all, 



Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's re- 
cess 

Till they die of their own dear loveli- 
ness; 20 

And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, 
Whom youth makes so fair, and passion so 

pale. 
That the light of its tremulous bells is 

seen 
Through their pavilions of tender green; 

And the hyacinth purple, and white, and 

blue, 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal 

anew 
Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, 
It was felt like an odor within the sense; 

And the rose like a nymph to the bath ad- 
dressed, 

Which unveiled the depth of her glowing 
breast, 30 

Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 

The soul of her beauty and love lay bare; 

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up. 
As a Msenad, its moonlight-colored cup. 
Till the fiery star, which is its eye. 
Gazed through clear dew on the tender 
sky; 

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet 

tube-rose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
And all rare blossoms from every clime 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 40 

And on the stream whose inconstant bosom 
Was pranked, under boughs of embowering 

blossom, 
With golden and green light, slanting 

through 
Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



373 



Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, 
And starry river-buds glimmered by, 
And around them the soft stream did glide 

and dance 
With a motion of sweet sound and radi- 
ance. 

And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss. 
Which led through the garden along and 

across, 50 

Some open at once to the sun and the 

breeze, 
Some lost among bowers of blossoming 

trees, — 

Were all paved with daisies and delicate 

bells. 
As fair as the fabulous asphodels. 
And flowrets which, drooping as day 

drooped too. 
Fell into pavilions white, purple, and blue. 
To roof the glowworm from the evening 

dew. 

And from this undefiled Paradise 
The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes 
Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet 60 
Can first lull, and at last must awaken it) 

When Heaven's blithe winds had unfolded 

them 
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, 
Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one 
Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun; 

For each one was interpenetrated 

With the light and the odor its neighbor 
shed, 

Like young lovers whom youth and love 
make dear, 

Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmo- 
sphere. 

But the Sensitive Plant, which could give 

small fruit 70 

Of the love which it felt from the leaf to 

the root, 
Received more than all, it loved more than 

ever, 
Where none wanted but it, could belong to 

the giver; 

For the Sensitive Plant has no bright 

flower; 
Radiance and odor are not its dower; 



It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is 

full, 
It desires what it has not, the beautiful ! 

The light winds which from unsustaining 

wings 
Shed the music of many murmurings; 
The beams which dart from many a star 8c 
Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar; 

The plumed insects swift and free, 
Like golden boats on a sunny sea. 
Laden with light and odor, which pass 
Over the gleam of the living grass; 

The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie 
Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides 

high, 
Then wander like spirits among the 

spheres. 
Each cloud faint with the fragance it 

bears; 

The quivering vapors of dim noontide, 90 
Which like a sea o'er the warm earth 

glide. 
In which every sound, and odor, and beam. 
Move, as reeds in a single stream; — 

Each and all like ministering angels were 
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear. 
Whilst the lagging hours of the day went 

by 

Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky. 

And when evening descended from heaven 

above. 
And the Earth was all rest, and the air was 

all love, 
And delight, though less bright, was far 

more deep, 100 

And the day's veil fell from the world of 

sleep. 

And the beasts, and the birds, and the in- 
sects were drowned 

In an ocean of dreams without a sound. 

Whose waves never mark, though they 
ever impress 

The light sand which paves it, conscious- 
ness; 

(Only overhead the sweet nightingale 
Ever sang more sweet as the day might 
fail, 



374 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And snatches of its Elysian chant 
Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensi- 
tive Plant) ; — 

The Sensitive Plant was the earliest no 
Upgathered into the bosom of rest ; 
A sweet child weary of its delight, 
The feeblest and yet the favorite, 
Cradled within the embrace of night. 

PART SECOND 

There was a Power in this sweet place, 
An Eve in this Eden; a ruling grace 
Which to the flowers, did they waken or 

dream, 
Was as God is to the starry scheme. 

A Lady, the wonder of her kind. 

Whose form was upborne by a lovely mind 

Which, dilating, had moulded her mien 

and motion 
Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the 

ocean, 

Tended the garden from morn to even; 
And the meteors of that sublunar heaven, 
Like the lamps of the air when Night walks 

forth, I I 

Laughed round her footsteps up from the 

Earth ! 

She had no companion of mortal race, 
But her tremulous breath and her flushing 

face 
Told, whilst the morn kissed the sleep from 

her eyes. 
That her dreams were less slumber than 

Paradise : 

As if some bright Spirit for her sweet 

sake 
Had deserted heaven while the stars were 

awake. 
As if yet around her he lingering were. 
Though the veil of daylight concealed him 

from her. 2c 

Her step seemed to pity the grass it 

pressed ; 
You might hear, by the heaving of her 

breast, 
That the coming and going of the wind 
Brought pleasure there and left passion 

behind. 



And wherever her airy footstep trod. 
Her trailing hair from the grassy sod 
Erased its light vestige, with shadowy 

sweep. 
Like a sunny storm o'er the dark green 

deep. 

I doubt not the flowers of that garden 

sweet 
Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet; 30 
I doubt not they felt the spirit that came 
From her glowing fingers through all their 

frame. 

She sprinkled bright water from the stream 
On those that were faint with the sunny 

beam ; 
And out of the cups of the heavy flowers 
She emptied the rain of the thunder 

showers. 

She lifted their heads with her tender 
hands. 

And sustained them with rods and osier- 
bands ; 

If the flowers had been her own infants, 
she 

Could never have nursed them more ten- 
derly. 40 

And all killing insects and gnawing worms, 
And things of obscene and unlovely forms, 
She bore in a basket of Indian woof. 
Into the rough woods far aloof, — 

In a basket, of grasses and wild flowers 
full. 

The freshest her gentle hands could pull 

For the poor banished insects, whose in- 
tent, 

Although they did ill, was innocent. 

But the bee, and the beam-like ephemeris 
Whose path is the lightning's, and soft 

moths that kiss 50 

The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm not, 

did she 
Make her attendant angels be. 

And many an antenatal tomb, 

Where butterflies dream of the life to 

come, 
She left clinging round the smooth and 

dark 
Edge of the odorous cedar bark. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



375 



This fairest creature from earliest spring 
Thus moved through the garden minister- 
ing 
All the sweet season of summer tide, 
And ere the first leaf looked brown — she 
died ! 60 



PART THIRD 

Three days the flowers of the garden fair, 
Like stars when the moon is awakened, 

were, 
Or the waves of Baiae, ere luminous 
She floats up through the smoke of Vesu- 
vius. 

And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant 

Felt the sound of the funeral chant. 

And the steps of the bearers, heavy and 

slow, 
And the sobs of the mourners, deep and 

low; 

The weary sound and the heavy breath. 
And the silent motions of passing death, 10 
And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank. 
Sent through the pores of the coffin plank. 

The dark grass, and the flowers among the 
grass, 

Were bright with tears as the crowd did 
pass; 

From their sighs the wind caught a mourn- 
ful tone, 

And sate in the pines, and gave groan for 
groan. 

The garden, once fair, became cold and 

foul, 
Like the corpse of her who had been its 

soul 
Which at first was lovely as if in sleep. 
Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap 20 
To make men tremble who never weep. 

Swift summer into the autumn flowed, 
And frost in the mist of the morning rode. 
Though the noonday sun looked clear and 

bright. 
Mocking the spoil of the secret night. 

The rose leaves, like flakes of crimson 

snow, 
Paved the turf and the moss below. 



The lilies were drooping, and white, and 

wan. 
Like the head and the skin of a dying man. 

And Indian plants, of scent and hue 30 

The sweetest that ever were fed on dew, 
Leaf by leaf, day after day. 
Were massed into the common clay. 

And the leaves, brown, yellow, and gray, 

and red, 
And white with the whiteness of what is 

dead. 
Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind 

passed ; 
Their whistling noise made the birds aghast. 

And the gusty winds waked the winged 

seeds 
Out of their birthplace of ugly weeds. 
Till they clung round many a sweet flower's 

stem, 40 

Which rotted into the earth with them. 

The water-blooms under the rivulet 

Fell from the stalks on which they were 

set; 
And the eddies drove them here and there, 
As the winds did those of the upper air. 

Then the rain came down, and the broken 
stalks 

Were bent and tangled across the walks; 

And the leafless network of parasite bow- 
ers 

Massed into ruin, and all sweet flowers. 

Between the time of the wind and the 
snow sg 

All loathliest weeds began to grow, 

Whose coarse leaves were splashed with 
many a speck. 

Like the water-snake's belly and the toad's 
back. 

And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank, 
And the dock, and henbane, and hemlock 

dank. 
Stretched out its long and hollow shank, 
And stifled the air till the dead wind stank. 

And plants, at whose names the verse feels 
loath, 

Filled the place with a monstrous under- 
growth, 



376 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering-, and 
blue, 60 

Livid, and starred with a lurid dew. 

And agarics and fungi, with mildew and 

mould. 
Started like mist from the wet ground 

cold; 
Pale, fleshy, as if the decaying dead 
With a spirit of growth had been animated ! 

Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum, 
Made the running rivulet thick and dumb. 
And at its outlet flags huge as stakes 
Dammed it up with roots knotted like wa- 
ter-snakes. 

And hour by hour, when the air was still, 70 
The vapors arose which have strength to 

kill; 
At morn they were seen, at noon they were 

felt, 
At night they were darkness no star could 

melt. 

And unctuous meteors from spray to spray 
Crept and flitted in broad noonday 
Unseen; every branch on which they alit 
By a venomous blight was burned and 
bit. 

The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid. 
Wept, and the tears within each lid 79 

Of its folded leaves, which together grew, 
Were changed to a blight of frozen glue. 

For the leaves soon fell, and the branches 

soon 
By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn; 
The sap shrank to the root through every 

pore, 
As blood to a heart that will beat no more. 

For Winter came; the wind was his whip; 
One choppy finger was on his lip; 
He had torn the cataracts from the hills 
And they clanked at his girdle like mana- 
cles; 

His breath was a chain which without a 
sound 90 

The earth, and the air, and the water bound ; 

He came, fiercely driven, in his chariot- 
throne, 

By the tenfold blasts of the Arctic zone. 



Then the weeds which were forms of living 

death 
Fled from the frost to the earth beneath. 
Their decay and sudden flight from frost 
W^as but like the vanishing of a ghost ! 

And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant 
The moles and the dormice died for want; 
The birds dropped stiff from the frozen air 
And were caught in the branches naked 
and bare. loi 

First there came down a thawing rain, 
And its dull drops froze on the boughs 

again; 
Then there steamed up a freezing dew 
Which to the drops of the thaw-rain grew; 

And a northern whirlwind, wandering 

about 
Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child 

out. 
Shook the boughs thus laden and heavy and 

stiff, 
And snapped them off with his rigid griff. 

When Winter had gone and Spring came 
back, no 

The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck ; 

But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and 
docks, and darnels, 

Rose like the dead from their ruined eliar- 
nels. 

CONCLUSION 

Whether the Sensitive Plant, or that 
Which within its boughs like a spirit sat. 
Ere its outward form had known decay, 
Now felt this change, I cannot say. 

Whether that lady's gentle mind, 
No longer with the form combined 
Which scattered love, as stars do lip It. i2f 
Found sadness where it left delight, 

I dare not guess; but in this life 
Of error, ignorance and strife. 
Where nothing is, but all things seen). 
And we the shadows of the dream. 

It is a modest creed, and yet 
Pleasant, if one considers it, 
To own that death itself must be. 
Like all the rest, a mockery. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



377 



That garden sweet, that lady fair, 130 

And all sweet shapes and odors there, 
In truth have never passed away : 
'T is we, 't is ours, are changed; not they. 

For love, and beauty, and delight, 
There is no death nor change : their might 
Exceeds our organs, which endure 
No light, being themselves obscure. 

A VISION OF THE SEA 

Composed at Pisa as early as April, and pub- 
lished with Prometheus Unbound, 1820. 

'Tis the terror of tempest. The rags of 
the sail 

Are flickering in ribbons within the fierce 
gale; 

From the stark night of vapors the dim rain 
is driven, 

And, when lightning is loosed, like a deluge 
from heaven, 

She sees the black trunks of the water- 
spouts spin 

And bend, as if heaven was ruining in, 

Which they seemed to sustain with their 
terrible mass 

As if ocean had sunk from beneath them; 
they pass 

To their graves in the deep with an earth- 
quake of sound, 

And the waves and the thunders, made 
silent around, lo 

Leave the wind to its echo. The vessel, 
now tossed 

Through the low trailing rack of the tem- 
pest, is lost 

In the skirts of the thundercloud; now 
down the sweep 

Of the wind-cloven wave to the chasm of 
the deep 

It sinks, and the walls of the watery vale 

Whose depths of dread calm are unmoved 
by the gale, 

Dim mirrors of ruin, hang gleaming about; 

While the surf, like a chaos of stars, like 
a rout 

Of death-llanjes, like whirlpools of fire- 
flowing iron. 

With splendor and terror the black ship 
environ, 20 

Or, like sulphur-flakes hurled from a mine 
of pale fire, 

In fountains spout o*er it. In many a spire 



The pyramid-billows, with white points of 
brine, 

In the cope of the lightning inconstantly 
shine. 

As piercing the sky from the floor of the 
sea. 

The great ship seems splitting ! it cracks 
as a tree. 

While an earthquake is splintering its root, 
ere the blast 

Of the whirlwind that stripped it of 
branches has passed. 

The intense thunder-balls which are rain- 
ing from heaven 

Have shattered its mast, and it stands black 
and riven. 30 

The chinks suck destruction. The heavy 
dead hulk 

On the living sea rolls an inanimate bulk. 

Like a corpse on the clay which is hunger- 
ing to fold 

Its corruption around it. Meanwhile, from 
the hold. 

One deck is burst up by the waters be- 
low. 

And it splits like the ice when the thaw- 
breezes blow 

O'er the lakes of the desert ! Who sit on 
the other ? 

Is that all the crew that lie burying each 
other. 

Like the dead in a breach, round the fore- 
mast ? Are those 

Twin tigers who burst, when the waters 
arose, 40 

In the agony of terror, their chains in the 
hold,— 

(What now makes them tame is what then 
made them bold) 

Who crouch, side by side, and have driven, 
like a crank. 

The deep grip of their claws through the 
vibrating plank, — 

Are these all ? Nine weeks the tall vessel 
had lain 

On the windless expanse of the watery 
plain, 

Where the death-darting sun cast no shadow 
at noon. 

And there seemed to be fire in the beams 
of the moon, 

Till a lead-colored fog gathered up from 
the deep, 

Whose breath was quick pestilence; then, 
the cold sleep 50 



378 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Crept, like blight through the ears of a 

thick field of corn, 
O'er the populous vessel. And even and 

morn; 
With their hammocks for coffins, the sea- 
men aghast 
Like dead men the dead limbs of their 

comrades cast 
Down the deep, which closed on them above 

and around. 
And the sharks and the dogfish their grave- 
clothes unbound, 
And were glutted like Jews with this 

manna rained down 
From God on their wilderness. One after 

one 
The mariners died; on the eve of this day. 
When the tempest was gathering in cloudy 

array, 60 

But seven remained. Six the thunder has 

smitten. 
And they lie black as mummies on which 

Time has written 
His scorn of the embalmer; the seventh, 

from the deck 
An oak-splinter pierced through his breast 

and his back, 
And hung out to the tempest, a wreck on 

the wreck. 
No more ? At the helm sits a woman 

more fair 
Than heaven when, unbinding its star- 
braided hair. 
It sinks with the sun on the earth and the 

sea. 
She clasps a bright child on her upgathered 

knee; 
It laughs at the lightning, it mocks the 

mixed thunder 70 

Of the air and the sea; with desire and 

with wonder 
It is beckoning the tigers to rise and come 

near ; 
It would play with those eyes where the 

radiance of fear 
Is outshining the meteors; its bosom beats 

high. 
The heart-fire of pleasure has kindled its eye. 
Whilst its mother's is lustreless: 'Smile 

not, my child, 
But sleep deeply and sweetly, and so be 

beguiled 
Of the pang that awaits us, whatever that be. 
So dreadful since thou must divide it with 

me ! 



Dream, sleep ! This pale bosom, thy cra- 
dle and bed, 80 

Will it rock thee not, infant ? 'T is beat- 
ing with dread ! 

Alas ! what is life, what is death, what are 
we, 

Tiiat when the ship sinks we no longer 
may be ? 

What ! to see thee no more, and to feel 
thee no more ? 

To be after life what we have been before ? 

Not to touch those sweet hands, not to look 
on those eyes. 

Those lips, and that hair, all that smiling 
disguise 

Thou yet wearest, sweet spirit, which I, 
day by day. 

Have so long called my child, but which 
now fades away 

Like a rainbow, and I the fallen shower ? ' 
Lo ! the ship 90 

Is settling, it topples, the leeward ports dip; 

The tigers leap up when they feel the slow 
brine 

Crawling inch by inch on them; hair, ears, 
limbs, and eyne 

Stand rigid with horror; a loud, long, 
hoarse cry 

Bursts at once from their vitals tremen- 
dously. 

And 't is borne down the mountainous vale 
of the wave. 

Rebounding, like thunder, from crag to 
cave. 

Mixed with the clash of the lashing rain, 

Hurried on by the might of the hurricane. 

The hurricane came from the west, and 
passed on 100 

By the path of the gate of the eastern sun, 

Transversely dividing the stream of the 
storm ; 

As an arrowy serpent, pursuing the form 

Of an elephant, bursts through the brakes 
of the waste. 

Black as a cormorant the screaming blast. 

Between ocean and heaven, like an ocean, 
passed. 

Till it came to the clouds on the verge of 
the world 

Which, based on the sea and to heaven up- 
curled. 

Like columns and walls did surround and 
sustain 

The dome of the tempest; it rent them in 
twain, no 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



379 



As a flood rends its barriers of mountain- 
ous crag; 
And the dense clouds in many a ruin and 

rag, 
Like the stones of a temple ere earthquake 

has passed, 
Like the dust of its fall, on the whirlwind 

are cast; 
They are scattered like foam on the tor- 
rent; and where 
The wind has burst out through the chasm, 

from the air 
Of clear morning the beams of the sunrise 

flow in. 
Unimpeded, keen, golden, and crystalline, 
Banded armies of light and of air; at one 

gate 
They encounter, but interpenetrate. 120 

And that breach in the tempest is widening 

away. 
And the caverns of cloud are torn up by 

the day. 
And the fierce winds are sinking with weary 

wings, 
Lulled by the motion and murmurings 
And the long glassy heave of the rocking 

sea. 
And overhead glorious, but dreadful to 

see, 
The wrecks of the tempest, like vapors of 

gold. 
Are consuming in sunrise. The heaped 

waves behold 
The deep calm of blue heaven dilating 

above. 
And, like passions made still by the pre- 
sence of Love, 130 
Beneath the clear surface reflecting it slide 
Tremulous with soft influence; extending 

its tide 
From the Andes to Atlas, round mountain 

and isle. 
Round sea-birds and wrecks, paved with 

heaven's azure smile. 
The wide world of waters is vibrating. 

Where 
Is the ship ? On the verge of the wave 

where it lay 
One tiger is mingled in ghastly affray 
With a sea-snake. The foam and the 

smoke of the battle 
Stain the clear air with sunbows. The jar, 

and the rattle 139 

Of solid bones crushed by the infinite stress 
Of the snake's adamantine voluminousness ; 



And the hum of the hot blood that spouts 
and rains 

Where the gripe of the tiger has wounded 
the veins. 

Swollen with rage, strength, and effort; the 
whirl and the splash 

As of some hideous engine whose brazen 
teeth smash 

The thin winds and soft waves into thun- 
der; the screams 

And hissings, crawl fast o'er the smooth 
ocean-streams. 

Each sound like a centipede. Near this 
commotion 

A blue shark is hanging within the blue 
ocean. 

The fin-winged tomb of the victor. The 
other 150 

Is winning his way from the fate of his 
brother, 

To his own with the speed of despair. Lo ! 
a boat 

Advances; twelve rowers with the impulse 
of thought 

Urge on the keen keel, — the brine foams. 
At the stern 

Three .marksmen stand levelling. Hot 
bullets burn 

In the breast of the tiger, which yet bears 
him on 

To his refuge and ruin. One fragment 
alone — 

'Tis dwindling and sinking, 'tis now almost 
gone — 

Of the wreck of the vessel peers out of the 
sea. 

With her left hand she grasps it impetu- 
ously, 160 

With her right hand she sustains her fair 
infant. Death, Fear, 

Love, Beauty, are mixed in the atmo- 
sphere. 

Which trembles and burns with the fervor 
of dread 

Around her wild eyes, her bright hand, 
and her head. 

Like a meteor of light o'er the waters ! her 
child 

Is yet smiling, and playing, and murmur- 
ing; so smiled 

The false deep ere the storm. Like a sis- 
ter and brother 

The child and the ocean still smile on each 
other. 

Whilst 



38o 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



With wings folded I rest, on mine airy 
nest, 
As still as a brooding dove. 

That orb^d maiden, with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the Moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 
Which only the angels hear, 50 

May have broken the woof of my tent's 
thin roof. 
The stars peep behind her and peer; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built 
tent, 
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me 
on high. 
Are each paved with the moon and 
these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel 
and swim, 61 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like 
shape, 
Over a torrent sea. 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, — 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch, through which I 
march, 
With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the powers of the air are chained to 
my chair. 
Is the million-colored bow; 70 

The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 
While the moist earth was laughing 
below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and 
shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams with their 
convex gleams 

Build up the blue dome of air, 80 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 



THE CLOUD 
Published with Prometheus Unbound, 1820. 

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting 
flowers. 

From the seas and the streams; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that 
waken 

The sweet buds every one. 
When rocked to rest on their mother's 
breast. 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail. 

And whiten the green plains under, 10 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast; 
And all the night 't is my pillow white. 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bow- 
ers. 

Lightning my pilot sits; ^ 

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits; 20 

Over earth and ocean with gentle motion. 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains. 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or 
stream. 

The Spirit he loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue 
smile. 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 30 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 

And his burning plumes outspread. 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. 

When the morning star shines dead; 
As on the jag of a mountain crag. 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
A.nd when sunset may breathe, from the 
lit sea beneath. 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 40 

^nd the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



381 



Like a child from the womb, like a ghost 
from the tomb, 
I arise and unbuild it again. 



TO A SKYLARK 

Composed at Leghorn, and published with 
Prometheus Unbound, 1820. The occasion is 
described by Mrs. Shelley : ' In the spring- we 
spent a week or two near Leghorn, borrowing 
the house of some friends, who were absent on 
a journey to England. It was on a beautiful 
summer evening while wandering among the 
lanes, whose myrtle hedges were the bowers 
of the fireflies, that we heard the carolling of 
the skylark, which inspired one of the most 
beautiful of his poems.' 

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from Heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring 
ever singest. 10 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun, 
O'er which clouds are bright'ning, 
Thou dost float and run; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just 
begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of heaven 
In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, — but yet I hear thy shrill 
delight, 20 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear 
Until we hardly see — we feel that it is 
there ; 

All the earth and air 
With thy voice is loud, 



As when Night is bare 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven 
is overflowed. 



30 



What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there flow 
not 
Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of 
melody. 

Like a Poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded 
not : 40 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower. 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, — which over- 
flows her bower : 

Like a glowworm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass which screen 
it from the view : 50 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflowered, 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet those 
heavy winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers, 
All that ever was 
Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth 
surpass. 60 

Teach us, Sprite or Bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine; 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so 
divine. 



382 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Chorus Hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chant, 
Matched with thine, would be all 
But an empty vaunt, 
A thing wherein we feel there is some 
hidden want. 70 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What fields or waves or mountains ? 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what igno- 
rance of pain ? 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be; 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee; 
Thou lovest — but ne'er knew love's sad 
satiety. 80 

Waking or asleep 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream — 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crys- 
tal stream ? 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not; 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of 
saddest thoughts 90 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate and pride and fear; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should 
come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 
That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the 
ground ! 100 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know. 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow 
The world should listen then — as I am 
listening now. 



ODE TO LIBERTY 

Published with Prometheus Unbound, 1820. 
Shelley sent it to Peacock with permission to 
insert asterisks in stanzas fifteen and sixteen 
in case his publisher objected to the expressions 
there used. 

Yet Freedom, yet, thy banner torn but flying 
Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind. 

Byron. 



A GLORIOUS people vibrated again 

The lightning of the Nations; Liberty, 
From heart to heart, from tower to tower, 
o'er Spain, 
Scattering contagious fire into the sky. 
Gleamed. My soul spurned the chains of 
its dismay, 
And in the rapid plumes of song 
Clothed itself, sublime and strong; 
As a young eagle soars the morning clouds 
among, 
Hovering in verse o'er its accustomed 
prey; 
Till from its station in the Heaven of 
fame 
The Spirit's whirlwind rapt it, and the ray 
Of the remotest sphere of living flame 
Which paves the void was from behind it 
flung. 
As foam from a ship's swiftness, when 

there came 
A voice out of the deep: I will record the 
same. 

II 

The Sun and the serenest Moon sprang 
forth ; 
The burning stars of the abyss were 
hurled 
Into the depths of heaven. The daedal 
earth, 
That island in the ocean of the world. 
Hung in its cloud of all-sustaining air; 
But this divinest universe 
Was yet a chaos and a curse. 
For thou wert not ; but power from worst 
producing worse, 
The spirit of the beasts was kindled there, 
And of the birds, and of the watery 
forms. 
And there was war among them, and 
despair 
Within them, raging without truce or 
terms. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



383 



The bosom of their violated nurse 

Groaned, for beasts warred on beasts, 

and worms on worms, 
And men on men; each heart was as a hell 

of storms. 

Ill 

Man, the imperial shape, then multiplied 

His generations under the pavilion 
Of the Sun's throne; palace and pyramid, 
Temple and prison, to many a swarming 
million 
Weve as to mountain wolves their ragged 
caves. 
This human living multitude 
Was savage, cunning, blind, and rude. 
For thou wert not; but o'er the populous 
solitude, 
Like one fierce cloud over a waste of 
waves. 
Hung Tyranny; beneath, sate deified 
The sister-pest, congregator of slaves; 
Into the shadow of her pinions wide 
Anarchs and priests who feed on gold and 
blood 
Till with the stain their inmost souls are 

dyed, 
Drove the astonished herds of men from 
every side. 

IV 

The nodding promontories, and blue isles, 
And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous 
waves 
Of Greece, basked glorious in the open 
smiles 
Of favoring heaven; from their en- 
chanted caves 
Prophetic echoes flung dim melody. 
On the unapprehensive wild 
The vine, the corn, the olive mild. 
Grew savage yet, to human use unrecon- 
ciled ; 
And, like unfolded flowers beneath the sea, 
Like the man's thought dark in the in- 
fant's brain. 
Like aught that is which wraps what is 
to be. 
Art's deathless dreams lay veiled by 
many a vein 
Of Parian stone ; and, yet a speechless child. 
Verse murmured, and Philosophy did 

strain 
Her lidless eyes for thee; when o'er the 
^gean main 



Athens arose; a city such as vision 

Builds from the purple crags and silver 
towers 
Of battlemented cloud, as in derision 

Of kingliest masonry: the ocean floors 
Pave it; the evening sky pavilions it; 
Its portals are inhabited 
By thunder-zoned winds, each head 
Within its cloudy wings with sun-fire gar- 
landed, — 
A divine work ! Athens, diviner yet, 
Gleamed with its crest of columns, on 
the will 
Of man, as on a mount of diamond, 
set; 
For thou wert, and thine all-creative 
skill 
Peopled, with forms that mock the eternal 
dead 
In marble immortality, that hill 
Which was thine earliest throne and lat- 
est oracle. 

VI 

Within the surface of Time's fleeting river 

Its wrinkled image lies, as then it lay 
Immovably unquiet, and forever 

It trembles, but it cannot pass away ! 
The voices of thy bards and sages thunder 
With an earth-awakening blast 
Through the caverns of the past; 
Religion veils her eyes ; Oppression shrinks 
aghast. 
A wingM sound of joy, and love, and 
wonder. 
Which soars where Expectation never 
flew. 
Rending the veil of space and time asun- 
der ! 
One ocean feeds the clouds, and 
streams, and dew; 
One sun illumines heaven; one spirit vast 
With life and love makes chaos ever new. 
As Athens doth the world with thy de- 
light renew. 

VII 

Then Rome was, and from thy deep bosom 
fairest, 
Like a wolf-cub from a Cadmean Maenad, 
She drew the milk of greatness, though thy 
dearest 
From that Elysian food was yet un« 
weaned: 



384 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And many a deed of terrible uprightness 
By thy sweet love was sanctified; 
And in thy smile, and by thy side, 
Saintly Camillus lived, and firm Atilius died. 
But when tears stained thy robe of vestal 
whiteness, 
And gold profaned thy Capitolian 
throne, 
Thou didst desert, with spirit-winged 
lightness. 
The senate of the tyrants: they sunk 
prone 
Slaves of one tyrant. Palatinus sighed 
Faint echoes of Ionian song; that tone 
Thou didst delay to hear, lamenting to 
disown. 

VIII 

From what Hyrcanian glen or frozen hill. 
Or piny promontory of the Arctic main, 
Or utmost islet inaccessible. 

Didst thou lament the ruin of thy reign. 
Teaching the woods and waves, and desert 
rocks. 
And every Naiad's ice-cold urn. 
To talk in echoes sad and stern, 
Of that sublimest lore which man had dared 
unlearn ? 
For neither didst thou watch the wizard 
flocks 
Of the Scald's dreams, nor haunt the 
Druid's sleep. 
What if the tears rained through thy 
shattered locks 
Were quickly dried ? for thou didst 
groan, not weep, 
When from its sea of death, to kill and 
burn, 
The Galilean serpent forth did creep, 
And made thy world an undistinguishable 
heap. 

IX 

A thousand years the Earth cried. Where 
art thou ? 
And then the shadow of thy coming 
fell 
On Saxon Alfred's olive-cinctured brow; 

And many a warrior-peopled citadel. 
Like rocks which fire lifts out of the flat 
deep, 
Arose in sacred Italy, 
Frowning o'er the tempestuous sea 
Of kings, and priests, and slaves, in tower- 
crowned majesty; 



That multitudinous anarchy did sweep 
And burst around their walls, like idle 
foam. 
Whilst from the human spirit's deepest 
deep, 
Strange melody with love and awe 
struck dumb 
Dissonant arms ; and Art, which cannot die, 
With divine wand traced on our earthly 

home 
Fit imagery to pave heaven's everlasting 
dome. 

X 

Thou huntress swifter than the Moon I 
thou terror 
Of the world's wolves ! thou bearer of 
the quiver. 
Whose sun-like shafts pierce tempest- 
winged Error, 
As light may pierce the clouds when they 
dissever 
In the calm regions of the orient day ! 

Luther caught thy wakening glance; 
Like lightning, from his leaden lance 
Reflected, it dissolved the visions of the 
trance 
In which, as in a tomb, the nations lay; 
And England's prophets hailed thee 
as their queen. 
In songs whose music cannot pass away, 
Though it must flow forever; not un- 
seen 
Before the spirit-sighted countenance 
Of Milton didst thou pass, from the sad 

scene 
Beyond whose night he saw, with a de- 
jected mien. 

XI 

The eager hours and unreluctant years 

As on a dawn-illumined mountain stood, 
Trampling to silence their loud hopes and 
fears, 
Darkening each other with their multi- 
tude, 
And cried aloud. Liberty ! Indignation 
Answered Pity from her cave; 
Death grew pale within the grave, 
And Desolation howled to the destroyer, 
Save ! 
When, like heaven's sun girt by the ex- 
halation 
Of its own glorious light, thou didst 
arise, 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



38s 



Chasing thy foes from nation unto nation 
Like shadows: as if day had cloven 
the skies 
At dreaming midnight o'er the western 
wave, 
Men started, staggering with a glad sur- 
prise, 
Under the lightnings of thine unfamiliar 
eyes. 

XII 

Thou heaven of earth ! what spells could 
pall thee then, 
In ominous eclipse ? a thousand years. 
Bred from the slime of deep oppression's 
den, 
Dyed all thy liquid light with blood and 
tears, 
Till thy sweet stars could weep the stain 
away; 
How like Bacchanals of blood 
Round France, the ghastly vintage, 
stood 
Destruction's sceptred slaves, and Folly's 
mitred brood ! 
When one, like them, but mightier far 
than they. 
The Anarch of thine own bewildered 
powers, 
Rose; armies mingled in obscure array, 
Like clouds with clouds, darkening the 
sacred bowers 
Of serene heaven. He, by the past pur- 
sued, 
Rests with those dead but unforgotten 

hours, 
Whose ghosts scare victor kings in their 
ancestral towers. 

XIII 

England yet sleeps: was she not called of 
old? 
Spain calls her now, as with its thrilling 
thunder 
Vesuvius wakens ^tna, and the cold 

Snow-crags by its reply are cloven in 
sunder; 
O'er the lit waves every ^olian isle 
From Pithecusa to Pelorus 
Howls, and leaps, and glares in 
chorus; 
They cry, Be dim, ye lamps of heaven 
suspended o'er us ! 
Her chains are threads of gold, she need 
but smile 



And they dissolve; but Spain's were 
links of steel, 
Till bit to dust by virtue's keenest file. 
Twins of a single destiny ! appeal 
To the eternal years enthroned before us 
In the dim West; impress us from a seal, 
All ye have thought and done ! Time 
cannot dare conceal. 

XIV 

Tomb of Arminius ! render up thy dead 
Till, like a standard from a watch-tower's 
staff, 
His soul may stream over the tyrant's head ; 

Thy victory shall be his epitaph. 
Wild Bacchanal of truth's mysterious wine, 
King-deluded Germany, 
His dead spirit lives in thee. 
Why do we fear or hope ? thou art already 
free ! 
And thou, lost Paradise of this divine 
And glorious world ! thou flowery 
wilderness ! 
Thou island of eternity ! thou shrine 
Where desolation clothed with loveli- 
ness 
Worships the thing thou wert ! O Italy, 
Gather thy blood into thy heart; repress 
The beasts who make their dens thy 
sacred palaces. 

XV 

Oh, that the free would stamp the impious 
name 
Of King into the dust ! or write it there. 
So that this blot upon the page of fame 
Were as a serpent's path, which the light 
air 
Erases, and the flat sands close behind ! 
Ye the oracle have heard. 
Lift the victory-flashing sword, 
And cut the snaky knots of this foul gor- 
dian word, 
Which, weak itself as stubble, yet can 
bind 
Into a mass, irrefragably firm. 
The axes and the rods which awe man- 
kind; 
The sound has poison in it, 't is the 
sperm 
Of what makes life foul, cankerous, and 
abhorred; 
Disdain not thou, at thine appointed term. 
To set thine arm^d heel on this reluctant 
worm. 



386 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



XVI 

Oh, that the wise from their bright minds 
would kindle 
Such lamps within the dome of this dim 
world, 
That the pale name of Priest might shrink 
and dwindle 
Into the hell from which it first was 
hurled, 
A scoff of impious pride from fiends im- 
pure ; 
Till human thoughts might kneel 

alone, 
Each before the judgment-throne 
Of its own aweless soul, or of the power 
unknown ! 
Oh, that the words which make the 
thoughts obscure 
From which they spring, as clouds of 
glimmering dew 
From a white lake blot heaven's blue 
portraiture. 
Were stripped of their thin masks and 
various hue 
And frowns and smiles and splendors not 
their own, 
Till in the nakedness of false and true 
They stand before their Lord, each to re- 
ceive its due. 

XVII 
He who taught man to vanquish whatsoever 
Can be between the cradle and the grave 
Crowned him the King of Life. Oh, vain 
endeavor ! 
If on his own high will, a willing slave, 
He has enthroned the oppression and the 
oppressor. 
What if earth can clothe and feed 
Amplest millions at their need. 
And power in thought be as the tree within 
the seed ? 
Oh, what if Art, an ardent intercessor, 
Driving on fiery wings to Nature's 
throne, 
Checks the great mother stooping to ca- 
ress her 
And cries: * Give me, thy child, domin- 
ion 
Over all height and depth?' if Life can 
breed 
New wants, and wealth from those who 

toil and groan 
Rend of thy gifts and hers a thousand- 
fold for one. 



XVIII 

Gome thou, but lead out of the inmost 
cave 
Of man's deep spirit, as the morning- 
star 
Beckons the sun from the Eoan wave. 
Wisdom. I hear the pennons of her 
car 
Self-moving, like cloud charioted by flame; 
Comes she not, and come ye not. 
Rulers of eternal thought. 
To judge with solemn truth life's ill-appor- 
tioned lot ? 
Blind Love, and equal Justice, and the 
Fame 
Of what has been, the Hope of what 
will be ? 
O Liberty ! if such could be thy name 
Wert thou disjoined from these, or 
they from thee — 
If thine or theirs were treasures to be 
bought 
By blood or tears, have not the wise and 

free 
Wept tears, and blood like tears ? — The 
solemn harmony 

XIX 

Paused, and the Spirit of that mighty sing- 
ing 
To its abyss was suddenly withdrawn; 
Then as a wild swan, when sublimely wing- 
ing 
Its path athwart the thunder-smoke of 
dawn. 
Sinks headlong through the aerial golden 
light 
On the heavy sounding plain, 
When the bolt has pierced its 
brain ; 
As summer clouds dissolve unburdened of 
their rain; 
As a far taper fades with fading 
night, 
As a brief insect dies with dymg 
day, — 
My song, its pinions disarrayed of might, 
Drooped ; o'er it closed the echoes far 
away 
Of the great voice which did its flight sus- 
tain, 
As waves which lately paved his watery 

way 
Hiss round a drowner's head in their 
tempestuous play. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



3S7 



TO 



Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden, 
Thou needest not fear mine ; 

My spirit is too deeply laden 
Ever to burden thine. 

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion, 
Thou needest not fear mine; 

Innocent is the heart's devotion 
With which I worship thine. 



ARETHUSA 

Composed at Pisa, and published by Mrs. 
Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. 



Arethusa arose 

From her couch of snows 

In the Acroceraunian mountains, 
From cloud and from crag. 
With many a jag. 

Shepherding her bright fountains. 
She leapt down the rocks, 
With her rainbow locks 

Streaming among the streams; 

Her steps paved with green 
The downward ravine 

Which slopes to the western gleams; 
And gliding and springing. 
She went, ever singing. 

In murmurs as soft as sleep; 

The Earth seemed to love her, 
And Heaven smiled above her, 

As she lingered towards the deep. 

II 

Then Alpheus bold, 

On his glacier cold, 
With his trident the mountains strook; 

And opened a chasm 

In the rocks — with the spasm 
All Erymanthus shook. 

And the black south wind 

It unsealed behind 
The urns of the silent snow. 

And earthquake and thunder 

Did rend in sunder 
The bars of the springs below. 



The beard and the hair 

Of the River-god were 
Seen through the torrent's sweep, 

As he followed the light 

Of the fleet nymph's flight 
To the brink of the Dorian deep. 

Ill 

' Oh, save me ! Oh, guide me, 

And bid the deep hide me, 
For he grasps me now by the hair ! * 

The loud Ocean heard. 

To its blue depth stirred, 
And divided at her prayer; 

And under the water 

The Earth's white daughter 
Fled like a sunny beam; 

Behind her descended 

Her billows, unblended 
With the brackish Dorian stream. 

Like a gloomy stain 

On the emerald main 
Alpheus rushed behind. 

As an eagle pursuing 

A dove to its ruin 
Down the streams of the cloudy wind. 

IV 

Under the bowers 
Where the Ocean Powers 

Sit on their pearled thrones; 

Through the coral woods 
Of the weltering floods. 

Over heaps of unvalued stones; 
Through the dim beams 
Which amid the streams 

Weave a network of colored light; 
And under the caves, 
Where the shadowy waves 

Are as green as the forest's night; 
Outspeeding the shark. 
And the swordfish dark, 

Under the ocean foam. 

And up through the rifts 
Of the mountain clifts 

They passed to their Dorian home. 

V 

And now from their fountains 

In Enna's mountains, 
Down one vale where the morning basks. 

Like friends once parted 

Grown single-hearted. 
They ply their watery tasks. 



388 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



At sunrise they leap 
From their cradles steep 

In the cave of the shelving hill; 
At noontide they flow 
Through the woods below 

And the meadows of asphodel; 
And at night they sleep 
In the rocking deep 

Beneath the Ortygian shore, 
Like spirits that lie 
In the azure sky 

When they love but live no more. 



SONG OF PROSERPINE 

WHILE GATHERING FLOWERS ON THE 
PLAIN OF ENNA 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, in her first col- 
lected edition, 1839. 

Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth, 
Thou from whose immortal bosom 

Gods, and men, and beasts have birth. 
Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom, 

Breathe thine influence most divine 

On thine own child, Proserpine. 

If with mists of evening dew 

Thou dost nourish these young flowers 
Till they grow, in scent and hue. 

Fairest children of the hours. 
Breathe thine influence most divine 
On thine own child, Proserpine. 



HYMN OF APOLLO 

This and the following poem were com- 
posed for insertion in a projected drama of 
Williams, Midas. It was published by Mrs. 
Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. 



The sleepless Hours who watch me as I 

lie, 
Curtained with star-inwoven tapestries 
From the broad moonlight of the sky. 
Fanning the busy dreams from my dim 

eyes, 
Waken me when their Mother, the gray 

Dawn, 
Tells them that dreams and that the moon 

is gone. 



II 

Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue 

dome, 
I walk over the mountains and the waves, 
Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam; 
My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; 

the caves 
Are filled with my bright presence, and the 

air 
Leaves the green earth to my embraces 

bare. 

Ill 

The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I 
kill 
Deceit, that loves the night and fears the 
day; 
All men who do or even imagine ill 

Fly me, and from the glory of my ray 
Good minds and open actions take new 

might. 
Until diminished by the reign of night. 

IV 

I feed the clouds, the rainbows and the 

flowers 
With their ethereal colors; the moon's 

globe 
And the pure stars in their eternal bowers 
Are cinctured with my power as with a 

robe; 
Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may 

shine 
Are portions of one power, which is mine. 



I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven, 
Then with unwilling steps I wandei 

down 
Into the clouds of the Atlantic even; 
For grief that I depart they weep and 

frown. 
What look is more delightful than the 

smile 
With which I soothe them from the western 

isle? 

VI 

I am the eye with which the Universe 
Beholds itself, and knows itself divine; 

All harmony of instrument or verse, 
All prophecy, all medicine are mine. 

All light of Art or Nature ; — to my song 

Victory and praise in its own right be* 
long. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



389 



HYMN OF PAN 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 



From the forests and highlands 

We come, we come; 
From the river-girt islands, 

Where loud waves are dumb 
Listening to my sweet pipings. 
The wind in the reeds and the rushes, 

The bees on the bells of thyme, 
The birds on the myrtle bushes, 
The cicale above in the lime, 
And the lizards below in the grass. 
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, 
Listening my sweet pipings. 

II 

Liquid Peneus was flowing, 

And all dark Tempe lay 
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing 
The light of the dying day. 
Speeded by my sweet pipings. 
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, 

And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, 
To the edge of the moist river-lawns. 

And the brink of the dewy caves, 
And all that did then attend and follow, 
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, 
With envy of my sweet pipings. 

Ill 

I sang of the dancing stars, 

I sang of the daedal Earth, 
And of Heaven — and the giant wars, 
And Love, and Death, and Birth ; — 
And then I changed my pipings. 
Singing how down the vale of Mienalus 

I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed. 
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus ! 

It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed. 
All wept, as I think both ye now would 
If envy or age had not frozen your blood. 
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. 

THE QUESTION 

Published by Hunt, The Literary Pocket- 
Book, 1822. 

I 

I DREAMED that, as I wandered by the way. 
Bare winter suddenly was changed to 
spring, 



And gentle odors led my steps astray. 

Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring 
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 
Its green arms round the bosom of the 

stream , 
But kissed it and then fled, as thou might- 
est in dream. 

II 

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets. 
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the 
earth. 
The constellated flower that never sets; 
Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose 
birth 
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower 
that wets — 
(Like a child, half in tenderness and 
mirth) 
Its mother's face with heaven - collected 

tears. 
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, 
it hears. 

Ill 

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglan- 
tine, 
Green cowbind and the moonlight-colored 
May, 
And cherry blossoms, and white cups, 
whose wine 
Was the bright dew yet drained not bj 
the day. 
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine. 

With its dark buds and leaves, wander- 
ing astray; 
And flowers azure, black, and streaked 

with gold, 
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. 

IV 

And nearer to the river's trembling edge 
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple 
pranked with white; 
And starry river buds among the sedge; 
And floating water-lilies, broad and 
bright. 
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 
With moonlight beams of their own 
watery light; 
And bulrushes and reeds, of such deep 

green 
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober 
sheei}. 



39° 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Methought that of these visionary flowers 
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 
That the same hues, which in their natural 
bowers 
Were mingled or opposed, the like array 
Kept these imprisoned children of the 
Hours 
Within my hand, — and then, elate and 

gay, 

I hastened to the spot whence I had come, 
That I might there present it ! — Oh, to 
whom ? 

THE TWO SPIRITS 
AN ALLEGORY 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

FIRST SPIRIT 

THOU, who plumed with strong desire 
Wouldst float above the earth, beware ! 

A Shadow tracks thy flight of fire — 

Night is coming ! 
Bright are the regions of the air, 

And among the winds and beams 
It were delight to wander there — 

Night is coming ! 

SECOND SPIRIT 

The deathless stars are bright above; 
If I would cross the shade of night. 
Within my heart is the lamp of love. 

And that is day ! 
And the moon will smile with gentle light 
On my golden plumes where'er they 
move; 
The meteors will linger round my flight. 
And make night day. 

FIRST SPIRIT 

But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken 
Hail, and lightning, and stormy rain ? 
See, the bounds of the air are shaken — 

Night is coming ! 
The red swift clouds of the hurricane 
Yon declining sun have overtaken; 
The clash of the hail sweeps over the 
plain — 
Night is coming ! 

SECOND SPIRIT 

1 see the light, and I hear the sound; 

I '11 sail on the flood of the tempest dark. 



With the calm within and the light around 

Which makes night day; 
And thou, when the gloom is deep and 
stark. 
Look from thy dull earth, slumber- 
bound ; 
My moon-like flight thou then mayst mark 
On high, far away. 



Some say there is a precipice 

Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin 
O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice 

Mid Alpine mountains; 
And that the languid storm pursuing 

That winged shape forever flies 
Round those hoar branches, aye renewing 
Its aery fountains. 

Some say when nights are dry and clear. 
And the death-dews sleep on the mo- 
rass. 
Sweet whispers are heard by the travel- 
ler, 
Which make night day; 
And a silver shape like his early love doth 
pass. 
Upborne by her wild and glittering hair. 
And, when he awakes on the fragrant 
grass. 
He finds night day. 



LETTER TO MARIA GISBORNE 

This letter was written from the house of 
Mrs. Gisborne, where Shelley had turned the 
workshop of her son, Mr. Reveley, an engineer, 
into a study. ' Mrs. Gisborne,' writes Mrs. 
Shelley, ' had been a friend of my father in her 
younger days. She was a lady of great accom- 
plishments, and charming from her frank and 
affectionate nature. She had the most intense 
love of knowledge, a delicate and trembling 
sensibility, and preserved freshness of mind 
after a life of considerable adversity. As a 
favorite friend of my father we had sought her 
with eag-erness, and the most open and cordial 
friendship was established between us.' Shel- 
ley also describes her : ' Mrs. Gisborne is a suffi- 
ciently amiable and very accomplished woman ; 
[she is SrifioKpaTiKr] and adir] — how far she 
may be (piAavdpwnr} I don't know, for] she is 
the antipodes of enthusiasm.' 

The poem was published by Mrs. Shelley, 
Posthumous Poems, 1824. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



39^ 



Leghorn, July 1. 1820. 
The spider spreads her webs whether she be 
In poet's tower, cellar, or barn, or tree; 
The silkworm in the dark green mulberry 

leaves 
His winding sheet and cradle ever weaves; 
So I, a thing whom moralists call worm, 
Sit spinning still round this decaying form, 
From the fine threads of rare and subtle 

thought — 
No net of words in garish colors wrought 
To catch the idle buzzers of the day — 
But a soft cell, where when that fades away 
Memory may clothe in wings my living 
name n 

And feed it with the asphodels of fame, 
Which in those hearts which must remem- 
ber me 
Grow, making love an immortality. 

Whoever should behold me now, I wist, 
Would think I were a mighty mechanist, 
Bent with sublime Archimedean art 
To breathe a soul into the iron heart 
Of some machine portentous, or strange gin. 
Which by the force of figured spells might 
win 20 

Its way over the sea, and sport therein ; 
For round the walls are hung dread engines, 

such 
As Vulcan never wrought for Jove to 

clutch 
Ixion or the Titan, — or the quick 
Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic, 
To convince Atheist, Turk or Heretic, 
Or those in philanthropic council met. 
Who thought to pay some interest for the 

debt 
They owed to Jesus Christ for their salva- 
tion. 
By giving a faint foretaste of damnation 30 
To Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser and the 

rest 
Who made our land an island of the blest. 
When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes 

her fire 
On Freedom's hearth, grew dim with Em- 
pire : — 
With thumbscrews, wheels, with tooth and 

spike and jag, 
Which fishers found under the utmost crag 
Of Cornwall and the storm-encompassed 

isles. 
Where to the sky the rude sea rarely 
smiles 



Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the 

morn 
When the exulting elements in scorn, 40 
Satiated with destroyed destruction, lay 
Sleeping in beauty on their mangled prey, 
As panthers sleep ; — and other strange 

and dread 
Magical forms the brick floor overspread — 
Proteus transformed to metal did not make 
More figures, or more strange; nor did he 

take 
Such shapes of unintelligible brass. 
Or heap himself in such a horrid mass 
Of tin and iron, not to be understood, 
And forms of unimaginable wood 50 

To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood; 
Great screws, and cones, and wheels, and 

grooved blocks, — 
The elements of what will stand the shocks 
Of wave and wind and time. Upon the 

table 
More knacks and quips there be than I am 

able 
To catalogize in this verse of mine : — 
A pretty bowl of wood — not full of wine, 
But quicksilver; that dew which the gnomes 

drink 
When at their subterranean toil they swink, 
Pledging the demons of the earthquake, 

who 60 

Reply to them in lava — cry halloo ! 
And call out to the cities o'er their head, — 
Roofs, towers and shrines, the dying and 

the dead, 
Crash through the chinks of earth — and 

then all quaff 
Another rouse, and hold their sides and 

laugh. 
This quicksilver no gnome has drunk — 

within 
The walnut bowl it lies, veined and thin. 
In color like the wake of light that stains 
The Tuscan deep, when from the moist 

moon rains 
The inmost shower of its white fire — the 

breeze 70 

Is still — blue heaven smiles over the pale 

seas. 
And in this bowl of quicksilver — for I 
Yield to the impulse of an infancy 
Outlasting manhood — I have made to float 
A rude idealism of a paper boat, — 
A hollow screw with cogs — Henry will 

know 
The thing I mean and laugh at me, if so 



392 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



He fears not I should do more mischief. 

Next 
Lie bills and calculations much perplexed, 
With steamboats, frigates, and machinery 
quaint So 

Traced over them in blue and yellow paint. 
Then comes a range of mathematical 
Instruments, for plans nautical and stati- 
cal; 
A heap of rosin, a queer broken glass 
With ink in it; a china cup that was 
What it will never be again, I think, 
A thing from which sweet lips were wont 

to drink 
The liquor doctors rail at — and which I 
Will quaff in spite of them — and when we 

die 

We '11 toss up who died first of drinking tea, 

And cry out, • heads or tails ? ' where'er we 

be. 91 

Near that a dusty paint box, some odd 

hooks, 
A half -burnt match, an ivory block, three 

books. 
Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, 
To great Laplace from Saunderson and 

Sims, 
Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray 
Of figures, — disentangle them who may. 
Baron de Tott's Memoirs beside them lie. 
And some odd volumes of old chemistry. 
Near those a most inexplicable thing, 100 
With lead in the middle — I 'm conjectur- 
ing 
How to make Henry understand ; but no — 
I '11 leave, as Spenser says, with many mo, 
This secret in the pregnant womb of time, 
Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme. 

And here like some weird Archimage 
sit I, 
Plotting dark spells, and devilish enginery, 
The self-impelling steam-wheels of the 

mind 
Which pump up oaths from clergymen, 

and grind 
The gentle spirit of our meek reviews 1 10 
Into a powdery foam of salt abuse, 
Ruffling the ocean of their self-content; 
1 sit — and smile or sigh as is my bent, 
But not for them ; Libeccio rushes round 
With an inconstant and an idle sound — 
I heed him more than them ; the thunder- 
smoke 
Is gathering on the mountains, like a cloak 



Folded athwart their shoulders broad and 

bare; 
The ripe corn under the undulating air 
Undulates like an ocean; and the vines 120 
Are trembling wide in all their trellised 

lines. 
The murmur of the awakening sea doth 

fill 
The empty pauses of the blast; the hill 
Looks hoary through the white electric 

rain. 
And from the glens beyond, in sullen strain. 
The interrupted thunder howls; above 
One chasm of heaven smiles, like the eye 

of Love 
On the unquiet world; — while such things 

are. 
How could one worth your friendship heed 

the war 
Of worms ? the shriek of the world's car- 
rion jays, 130 
Their censure, or their wonder, or their 

praise ? 

You are not here ! the quaint witch 
Memory sees 
In vacant chairs your absent images. 
And points where once you sat, and now 

should be 
But are not. I demand if ever we 
Shall meet as then we met; and she re- 
plies, 
Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes; 
' I know the past alone — but summon 

home 
My sister Hope, — she speaks of all to 

come.' 
But I, an old diviner, who knew well 140 
Every false verse of that sweet oracle. 
Turned to the sad enchantress once again, 
And sought a respite from my gentle pain, 
In citing every passage o'er and o'er 
Of our communion — how on the seashore 
We watched the ocean and the sky to- 
gether, 
Under the roof of blue Italian weather; 
How I ran home through last year's thun- 
der-storm, 
And felt the transverse lightning linger 
warm 149 

Upon my cheek; and how we often made 
Feasts for each other, where good-will out- 
weighed 
The frugal luxury of our country cheer. 
As well it might, were it less firm and clear 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



393 



Than ours must ever be; and how we 

spun 
A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun 
Of this familiar life which seems to be 
But is not — or is but quaint mockery 
Of all we would believe — and sadly blame 
The jarring and inexplicable frame 159 

Of this wrong world ; and then anatomize 
The purposes and thoughts of men whose 

eyes 
Were closed in distant years; or widely 

guess 
The issue of the earth's great business, 
When we shall be as we no longer are, — 
Like babbling gossips safe, who hear the 

war 
Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not; — or 

how 
You listened to some interrupted flow 
Of visionary rhyme, — in joy and pain 
Struck from the inmost fountains of my 

brain, 169 

With little skill perhaps ; or how we sought 
Those deepest wells of passion or of thought 
Wrought by wise poets in the waste of 

years. 
Staining their sacred waters with our 

tears, — 
Quenching a thirst ever to be renewed. 
Or how I, wisest lady ! then indued 
The language of a land which now is 

free. 
And, winged with thoughts of truth and 

majesty, 
Flits round the tyrant's sceptre like a cloud. 
And bursts the peopled prisons, and cries 

aloud, 
* My name is Legion ! ' — that majestic 

tongue 180 

Which Calderon over the desert flung 
Of ages and of nations, — and which found 
An echo in our hearts, — and with the 

sound 
Startled oblivion; — thou wert then to me 
As is a nurse — when inarticulately 
A child would talk as its grown parents do. 
If living winds the rapid clouds pursue, 
If hawks chase doves through the ethereal 

way. 
Huntsmen the innocent deer, and beasts 

their prey, 
Why should not we rouse with the spirit's 

blast 190 

Out of the forest of the pathless past 
These recollected pleasures ? 



You are now 

In London, that great sea, whose ebb and 
flow 

At oMce is deaf and loud, and on the shore 

Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for 
more. 

Yet in its depth what treasures ! You will 
see 

That which was Godwin, — greater none 
than he 

Though fallen — and fallen on evil times 
— to stand 

Among the spirits of our age and land, 

Before the dread tribunal of to come 200 

The foremost, — while Rebuke cowers pale 
and dumb. 

You will see Coleridge — he who sits ob- 
scure 

In the exceeding lustre and the pure 

Intense irradiation of a mind. 

Which, with its own internal lightning 
blind, 

Flags wearily through darkness and de- 
spair — 

A cloud-encircled meteor of the air, 

A hooded eagle among blinking owls. 

You will see Hunt — one of those happy 
souls 

Which are the salt of the earth, and with- 
out whom 210 

This world would smell like what it is — a 
tomb; 

Who is what others seem; his room no 
doubt 

Is still adorned by many a cast from Shout, 

With graceful flowers tastefully placed 
about. 

And coronals of bay from ribbons hung, 

And brighter wreaths in neat disorder 
flung, — 

The gifts of the most learned among some 
dozens 

Of female friends, sisters-in-law and cous- 
ins. 

And there is he with his eternal puns, 

Which beat the dullest brain for smiles, 
like duns 220 

Thundering for money at a poet's door; 

Alas ! it is no use to say, ' I 'm poor ! ' 

Or oft in graver mood, when he will 
look 

Tilings wiser than were ever read in book. 

Except in Shakespeare's wisest tender- 
ness. — 

You will see Hogg, — and I cannot express 



394 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



His virtues, — though I know that they 

are great, 
Because he locks, then barricades the gate 
Within which they inhabit; of his wit 
And wisdom you '11 cry out when you are 

bit. 230 

He is a pearl within an oyster shell, 
One of the richest of the deep. And there 
Is English Peacock, with his mountain fair, 
Turned into a Flamingo, — that shy bird 
That gleams i' the Indian air; — have you 

not heard 
When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo, 
His best friends hear no more of him ? — 

but you 
Will see him, and will like him too, I hope, 
With the milk-white Snowdonian Antelope 
Matched with this camelopard; his fine 

wit 240 

Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in 

it; 
A strain too learned for a shallow age. 
Too wise for selfish bigots; let his page 
Which charms the chosen spirits of the 

time. 
Fold itself up for the serener clime 
Of years to come, and find its recompense 
In that just expectation. Wit and sense. 
Virtue and human knowledge; all that 

might 
Make this dull world a business of de- 
light, — 
Are all combined in Horace Smith. And 

these, 250 

With some exceptions, which I need not 

tease 
Your patience by descanting on, are all 
You and I know in London. 

I recall 
My thoughts, and bid you look upon the 

night. 
As water does a sponge, so the moonlight 
Fills the void, hollow, universal air. 
What see you ? — unpavilioned heaven is 

fair 
Whether the moon, into her chamber gone. 
Leaves midnight to the golden stars, or wan 
Climbs with diminished beams the azure 

steep; 260 

Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse 

deep, 
Piloted by the many- wandering blast. 
And the rare stars rush through them dim 

and fast: — 



All this is beautiful in every land. 

But what see you beside ? — a shabby stand 

Of Hackney coaches — a brick house or 

wall 
Fencing some lonely court, white with the 

scrawl 
Of our unhappy politics ; or worse — 
A wretched woman reeling by, whose curse 
Mixed with the watchman's, partner of her 

trade, 270 

You must accept in place of serenade, — 
Or yellow-haired Pollonia murmuring 
To Henry, some unutterable thing. 
I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit 
Built round dark caverns, even to the root 
Of the living stems that feed them — in 

whose bowers 
There sleep in their dark dew the folded 

flowers; 
Beyond, the surface of the unsickled corn 
Trembles not in the slumbering air, and 

borne 279 

In circles quaint and ever changing dance. 
Like winged stars, the fireflies flash and 

glance. 
Pale in the open moonshine, but each one 
Under the dark trees seems a little sun, 
A meteor tamed, a fixed star gone astray 
From the silver regions of the milky way; 
Afar the Contadino's song is heard, 
Rude, but made sweet by distance — and a 

bird 
Which cannot be the Nightingale, and yet 
I know none else that sings so sweet as 

it 
At this late hour; — and then all is still. — 
Now Italy or London, which you will ! 291 

Next winter you must pass with me ; I '11 

have 
My house by that time turned into a grave 
Of dead despondence and low-thoughted 

care, 
And all the dreams which our tormentors 

are; 
Oh ! that Hunt, Hogg, Peacock and Smith 

were there, 
With every thing belonging to them fair! — 
We will have books, Spanish, Italian, 

Greek; 
And ask one week to make another week 
As like his father, as I 'm unlike mine, 30c 
Which is not his fault, as you may divine. 
Though we eat little flesh and drink no 

wine, 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



395 



Yet let's be merry: we'll have tea and 

toast; 
Custards for supper, and an endless host 
Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies, 
And other such lady-like luxuries, — 
Feasting on which we will philosophize ! 
And we '11 have fires out of the Grand 

Duke's wood, 
To thaw the six weeks' winter in our blood. 
And then we '11 talk ; — what shall we talk 

about ? 310 

Oh ! there are themes enough for many a 

bout 
Of thought-entangled descant ; — as to 

nerves — 
With cones and parallelograms and curves 
I 've sworn to strangle them if once they 

dare 
To bother me — when you are with me 

there. 
And they shall never more sip laudanum, 
From Helicon or Himeros; — well, come. 
And in despite of God and of the devil. 
We '11 make our friendly philosophic revel 
Outlast the leafless time; till buds and 

flowers 320 

Warn the obscure inevitable hours 
Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew; — 
' To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures 

new.' 

ODE TO NAPLES 

The revolutionary uprisings of this year af- 
fected Shelley as powerfully as the Manchester 
Riot of 1819, and this poem is the fruit of that 
fleeting- renascence of political hope so often 
illustrated in his verse. He composed it at the 
Baths of San Giuliano, August 17-25, and it 
was published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. Shelley added a note to the 
poem, as follows : ' The author has connected 
iHany recollections of his visit to Pompeii 
and Baise with the enthusiasm excited by the 
intelligence of the proclamation of a Constitu- 
tional Government at Naples. This has given 
a tinge of picturesque and descriptive imagery 
to the introductory Epodes which depicture 
these scenes, and some of the majestic feelings 
permanently connected with the scene of the 
animating event.' 

EPODE I a 

I STOOD within the city disinterred ; 

And heard the autumnal leaves like 
light footfalls 



Of spirits passing through the streets; and 
heard 
The Mountain's slumberous voice at 
intervals 
Thrill through those roofless halls; 
The oracular thunder penetrating shook 
The listening soul in my suspended 
blood ; 
I felt that Earth out of her deep heart 
spoke — 
I felt, but heard not. Through white 
columns glowed 
The isle-sustaining Ocean-flood, lo 

A plane of light between two Heavens of 
azure : 
Around me gleamed many a bright sep- 
ulchre 
Of whose pure beauty, Time, as if his plea- 
sure 
Were to spare Death, had never made 
erasure; 
But every living lineament was clear 
As in the sculptor's thought; and 
there 
The wreaths of stony myrtle, ivy and 
pine, 
Like winter leaves o'ergrown by moulded 

snow. 
Seemed only not to move and grow 

Because the crystal silence of the air 20 
Weighed on their life ; even as the Power 

divine, 
Which then lulled all things, brooded 
upon mine. 

EPODE n a 

Then gentle winds arose, 
With many a mingled close 
Of wild iEolian sound and mountain odor 
keen; 
And where the Baian ocean 
Welters with air-like motion, 
Within, above, around its bowers of starry 
green, 
Moving the sea-flowers in those purple 
caves, 29 

Even as the ever stormless atmosphere 
Floats o'er the Elysian realm, 
It bore me, like an angel, o'er the waves 
Of sunlight, whose swift pinnace of 
dewy air 
No storm can overwhelm. 
I sailed where ever flows 
Under the calm Serene 
A spirit of deep emotion 



39^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



From the unknown graves 
Of the dead kings of Melody. 
Shadowy Aornus darkened o'er the helm 40 
The horizontal ether ; heaven stripped 

bare 
Its depths over Elysium, where the prow 
Made the invisible water white as snow; 
From that Typhaean mount, Inarim^, 
There streamed a sunbright vapor, like 
the standard 
Of some ethereal host; 
Whilst from all the coast, 
Louder and louder, gathering round, 
there wandered 
Over the oracular woods and divine sea 
Prophesyiugs which grew articulate — 50 
They seize me — I must speak them — be 
they fate ! 

STROPHE a 1 

Naples, thou Heart of men, which ever 
pantect 
Naked, beneath the lidless eye of hea- 
ven ! 
Elysian City, which to calm enchantest 
The mutinous air and sea ! they round 

thee, even 
As sleep round Love, are driven ! 
Metropolis of a ruined Paradise 

Long lost, late won, and yet but half re- 
gained ! 
Bright Altar of the bloodless sacrifice, 
Which arm^d Victory offers up un- 
stained 60 
To Love, the flower-enchained ! 
Thou which wert once, and then didst cease 

to be. 
Now art, and henceforth ever shalt be, 
free. 
If Hope, and Truth, and Justice can 
avail, — 

Hail, hail, all hail ! 

STROPHE jS 2 
Thou youngest giant birth. 
Which from the groaning earth 
Leap'st, clothed in armor of impenetrable 
scale ! 
Last of the intercessors 
Who 'gainst the Crowned Trans- 
gressors 70 
Pleadest before God's love ! Arrayed in 
Wisdom's mail, 
Wave thy lightning lance in mirth, 
Nor let thy high heart fail, 



Though from their hundred gates the 
leagued 0})pressors, 
With hurried legions move ! 
Hail, hail, all hail ! 

ANTI8TROPHE a 1 
What though Cimmerian anarchs dare blas- 
pheme 
Freedom and thee ? thy shield is as a 
mirror 
To make their blind slaves see, and with 
fierce gleam 
To turn his hungry sword upon the 
wearer; 80 

A new Actseon's error 
Shall theirs have been — devoured by their 
own hounds ! 
Be thou like the imperial Basilisk, 
Killing thy foe with unapparent wounds ! 
Gaze on oppression, till, at that dread 

risk 
Aghast, she pass from the Earth's 
disk; 
Fear not, but gaze — for freemen mightier 

grow. 
And slaves more feeble, gazing on their 
foe. 
If Hope, and Truth, and Justice may 

avail, 
Thou shalt be great. — All hail I 9* 

ANTISTROPHE fi 2 

From Freedom's form divine, 
From Nature's inmost shrine. 
Strip every impious gaud, rend Error veil 
by veil; 
O'er Ruin desolate. 
O'er Falsehood's fallen state, 
Sit thou sublime, unawed ; be the Destroyer 
pale ! 
And equal laws be thine. 
And winged words let sail. 
Freighted with truth even from the throne 
of God; 
That wealth, surviving fate, loo 

Be thine. — All hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE O y 

Didst thou not start to hear Spain's thrill- 
ing paean 
From land to land reechoed solemnly, 
Till sUence became music ? From the 
^aean 
To the cold Alps, eternal Italy 
Starts to hear thine ! The Sea 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



397 



Which paves the desert streets of Venice 
laughs 
In light and music ; widowed Genoa 
wan 
By moonlight spells ancestral epitaphs, 
Murmuring, Where is Doria ? Fair Milan, 
Within whose veins long ran m 

The viper's palsying venom, lifts her heel 
To bruise his head. The signal and the 
seal 
(If Hope, and Truth, and Justice can 

avail) 
Art thou of all these hopes. — O hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE j8 7 

Florence ! beneath the sun, 
Of cities fairest one, 
Blushes within her bower for Freedom's 
expectation 
From eyes of quenchless hope 
Rome tears the priestly cope, 120 
As ruling once by power, so now by ad- 
miration, — 
An athlete stripped to run 
From a remoter station 
Fop the high prize lost on Philippi's 
shore : — 
As then Hope, Truth, and Justice did 

avail, 
So now may Fraud and Wrong ! O 
hail! 

EPODE I )3 

'lear ye the march as of the Earth-born 
Forms 
Arrayed against the ever-living Gods ? 
The crash and darkness of a thousand 
storms 
Bursting their inaccessible abodes 130 
Of crags and thunder-clouds ? 
See ye the banners blazoned to the day. 
Inwrought with emblems of barbaric 
pride ? 
Dissonant threats kill Silence far away, 
The serene Heaven which wraps our 
Eden wide 
With iron light is dyed, 
The Anarchs of the North lead forth their 
legions 
Like Chaos o'er creation, uncreat- 
ing; 
An hundred tribes nourished on strange re- 
ligions 
And lawless slaveries, — down the aerial 
regions 140 



Of the white Alps, desolating. 
Famished wolves that bide no wait- 
ing, 
Blotting the glowing footsteps of old glory. 
Trampling our columned cities into dust, 
Their dull and savage lust 
On Beauty's corse to sickness satiat- 
ing— 
They come ! The fields they tread look 

black and hoary 
With fire — from their red feet the streams 



run gory 



EPODE n j8 

Great Spirit, deepest Love ! 
Which rulest and dost move i5<» 

All things which live and are, within the 
Italian shore; 
Who spread est heaven around it, 
Whose woods, rocks, waves, sur- 
round it; 
Who sittest in thy star, o'er Ocean's west- 
ern floor; 
Spirit of beauty ! at whose soft com- 
mand 
The sunbeams and the showers distil its 
foison 
From the Earth's bosom chill; 
Oh, bid those beams be each a blinding 
brand 
Of lightning ! bid those showers be dews of 



poison 



160 



Bid the Earth's plenty kill ! 
Bid thy bright Heaven above. 
Whilst light and darkness bound it, 
Be their tomb who planned 
To make it ours and thine ! 
Or with thine harmonizing ardors fill 
And raise thy sons, as o'er the prone hori- 
zon 
Thy lamp feeds every twilight wave with 

fire ! 
Be man's high hope and unextinct de- 
sire 
The instrument to work thy will divine ! 
Then clouds from sunbeams, antelopes 
from leopards, 170 

And frowns and fears from Thee, 
Would not more swiftly flee. 
Than Celtic wolves from the Ausonian 
shepherds. — 
Whatever, Spirit, from thy starry 

shrine 
Thou yieldest or withholdest, eh, let be 
This city of thy worship, ever free ! 



398 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



AUTUMN 



A DIRGE 



Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is 

wailing. 
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale 
flowers are dying, 

And the year 
On the earth, her death-bed, in a shroud of 
leaves dead. 

Is lying. 
Come, Months, come away, 
From November to May, 
In your saddest array; 
Follow the bier 
Of the dead cold year. 
And like dim shadows watch by her sepul- 
chre. 

The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm 

is crawling, 
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is 
knelling 

For the year; 
The blithe swallows are flown, and the liz- 
ards each gone 

To his dwelling; 
Come, Months, come away. 
Put on white, black, and gray; 
Let your light sisters play — 
Ye, follow the bier 
Of the dead cold year, 
And make her grave green with tear on 
tear. 

DEATH 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 



Death is here, and death is there. 
Death is busy everywhere, 
All around, within, beneath. 
Above, is death — and we are death. 

II 

Death has set his mark and seal 
On all we are and all we feel, 
On all we know and all we fear, 



III 



First our pleasures die — and then 

Our hopes, and then our fears — and when 

These are dead, the debt is due, 

Dust claims dust — and we die too. 

IV 

All things that we love and cherish. 
Like ourselves, must fade and perish; 
Such is our rude mortal lot — - 
Love itself would, did they not. 

LIBERTY 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

I 

The fiery mountains answer each other, 
Their thunderings are echoed from zone to 

zone ; 
The tempestuous oceans awake one another, 
And the ice-rocks are shaken round Win- 
ter's throne. 
When the clarion of the Typhoon is 
blown. 

II 

From a single cloud the lightning flashes, 
Whilst a thousand isles are illumined 

around ; 
Earthquake is trampling one city to ashes. 
An hundred are shuddering and tottering ; 

the sound 
Is bellowing underground. 

Ill 

But keener thy gaze than the lightning's 

glare. 
And swifter thy step than the earthquake's 

tramp ; 
Thou deafenest the rage of the ocean; thy 

stare 
Makes blind the volcanoes; the sun's 

bright lamp 
To thine is a fen-fire damp. 

IV 

From billow and mountain and exhalation 
The sunlight is darted through vapor and 

blast; 
From spirit to spirit, from nation to nation. 
From city to hamlet, thy dawning is cast, — 
And tyrants and slaves are like shadows of 

night 
In the van of the morning light. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820 



399 



SUMMER AND WINTER 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, The Keepsake, 
1829. 

It was a bright and cheerful afternoon 
Towards the end of the sunny month of 

June, 
When the north wind congregates in crowds 
The floating mountains of the silver clouds 
From the horizon — and the stainless sky 
Opens beyond them like eternity. 
All things rejoiced beneath the sun; the 

weeds, 
The river, and the cornfields, and the 

reeds; 
The willow leaves that glanced in the light 

breeze. 
And the firm foliage of the larger trees. 

It was a winter such as when birds die 
In the deep forests; and the fishes lie 
Stiffened in the translucent ice, which 

makes 
Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes 
A wrinkled clod as hard as brick ; and 

when 
Among their children comfortable men 
Gather about great fires, and yet feel 

cold: 
Alas, then, for the homeless beggar old ! 

THE TOWER OF FAMINE 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, The Keepsake, 
1829. 

Amid the desolation of a city, 

Which was the cradle and is now the grave 

Of an extinguished people, — so that pity 

Weeps o'er the shipwrecks of oblivion's 

wave, 
There stands the Tower of Famine. It is 

built 
Upon some prison-homes, whose dwellers 

rave 

For bread, and gold, and blood ; pain, linked 

to guilt, 
Agitates the light flame of their hours. 
Until its vital oil is spent or spilt. 

There stands the pile, a tower amid the 
towers 



And sacred domes, — each marble-ribbed 

roof. 
The brazen-gated temples and the bowers 

Of solitary wealth; the tempest-proof 
Pavilions of the dark Italian air 
Are by its presence dimmed — they stand 
aloof. 

And are withdrawn — so that the world is 
bare; 

As if a spectre, wrapped in shapeless ter- 
ror, 

Amid a company of ladies fair 

Should glide and glow, till it became a 

mirror 
Of all their beauty, — and their hair and 

hue, 
The life of their sweet eyes, with all its 

error. 
Should be absorbed, till they to marble 

grew. 



AN ALLEGORY 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 



A PORTAL as of shadowy adamant 

Stands yawning on the highway of the 

life 
Which we all tread, a cavern huge and 

gaunt ; 
Around it rages an unceasing strife 
Of shadows, like the restless clouds that 

haunt 
The gap of some cleft mountain, lifted 

high 
Into the whirlwinds of the upper sky. 

II 

And many pass it by with careless tread, 

Not knowing that a shadowy . . . 
Tracks every traveler even to where the 
dead 
Wait peacefully for their companion 
new; 
But others, by more curious humor led, 

Pause to examine; these are very few. 
And they learn little there, except to know 
That shadows follow them where'er they 
go- 



4.00 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



THE WORLD'S WANDERERS 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 



Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light 
tSpeed thee in thy fiery flight, 
In what cavern of the night 

Will thy pinions close now ? 

II 
Tell me, moon, thou pale and gray 
Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way, 
In what depth of night or day 
Seekest thou repose now ? 

Ill 

Weary wind, who wanderest 
Like the world's rejected guest, 
Hast thou still some secret nest 
On the tree or billow ? 



SONNET 

Published by Hunt, The Literary Pocket- 
Book, 1824. 

Ye hasten to the grave ! What seek ye 
there, 

Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes 

Of the idle brain, which the world's livery 
wear ? 

O chou quick heart, which pantest to pos- 
sess 

All that pale expectation f eigne th fair ! 

Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest 
guess 

Whence thou didst come, and whither thou 
must go, 

And all that never yet was known would 
know, — 

Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye 
press 

With such swift feet life's green and plea- 
sant path. 

Seeking alike from happiness and woe 

A refuge in the cavern of gray death ? 

heart, and mind, and thoughts ! what 
thing do you 

Hope to inherit in the grave below ? 



LINES TO A REVIEWER 

Published by Hunt, The Literary Pocket- 
Book, 1823. 

Alas ! good friend, what profit can you see 
In hating such a hateless thing as me ? 
There is no sport in hate when all the rage 
Is on one side. In vain would you assuage 
Your frowns upon an unresisting smile. 
In which not even contempt lurks to beguile 
Your heart by some faint sympathy of hate. 
Oh, conquer what you cannot satiate ! 
For to your passion I am far more coy 
Than ever yet was coldest maid or boy 
In winter noon. Of your antipathy 
If I am the Narcissus, you are free 
To pine into a sound with hating me. 



TIME LONG PAST 
Published by Rossetti, 1870. 



Like the ghost of a dear friend dead 

Is Time long past. 
A tone which is now forever fled, 
A hope which is now forever past, 
A love so sweet it could not last. 

Was Time long past. 

II 

There were sweet dreams in the night 

Of Time long past. 
And, was it sadness or delight, 
Each day a shadow onward cast 
Which made us wish it yet might last- 

That Time long past. 

Ill 

There is regret, almost remorse. 

For Time long past. 
'T is like a child's beloved corse 
A father watches, till at last 
Beauty is like remembrance cast 

From Time long past. 



• BUONA NOTTE 

Published by Med win, The Angler in Wales, 
1834. 

Med win writes in his Life of Shelley : ' I 
often asked Shelley if he had never attempted 
to write, like Matthias, in Italian, and he 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1S21 



401 



showed me a sort of serenade which I give as a 
curiosity, — but proving that he had not made 
a profound study of the language, which, like 
Spanish, he had acquired without a grammar, 
— trusting to his fine ear and memory, rather 
than to rules.' 



* BuONA notte, buona notte ! ' — Come mai 
La notte sark buona senza te ? 

Non dirmi buona notte, — ch^ tu sai, 
La notte sk star buona da per se. 

II 

Solinga, scura, cupa, senza sperae. 
La notte quando Lilla m'abbandona; 

Pei cuori chi si batton insieme 

Ogni notte, senza dirla, sark buona. 

Ill 

Come male buona notte si suona 
Con sospiri e parole interrotte ! — 

II modo di aver la notte buona 
E mai non di dir la buona notte. 



GOOD-NIGHT 



Published by Hunt, The Literary Pocket 

Book, 1822. 



Good-night ? ah, no ! the hour is ill 
Which severs those it should unite; 

Let us remain together still, 
Then it will be good night. 

II 

How can I call the lone night good, 

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight ? 

Be it not said, thought, understood, 
Then it will be good night. 

Ill 

To hearts which near each other move 
From evening close to morning light, 

The night is good; because, my love, 
They never say good-night. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 182 1 



Mrs. Shelley gives, as usual, the general scene 
and atmosphere of the year, which was spent 
at Pisa or the Baths of San Giuliano : ' We 
were not, as our wont had been, alone — friends 
had gathered round us. Nearly all are dead ; 
and when memory recurs to the past, she 
wanders among tombs : the genius with all his 
blighting errors and mighty powers ; the com- 
panion of Shelley's ocean-wanderings, and the 
sharer of his fate, than whom no man ever 
existed more gentle, generous, and fearless ; 
and others, who found in Shelley's society, and 
in his great knowledge and warm sympathy, 
delight, instruction and solace, have joined him 
beyond the grave. . . . 

' Shelley's favorite taste was boating ; when 
living near the Thames, or by the lake of 
Geneva, much of his life was spent on the 
water. On the shore of every lake, or stream, 
or sea, near which he dwelt, he had a boat 
moored. He had latterly enjoyed this pleasure 
again. There are no pleasure-boats on the 
Arno, and the shallowness of its waters, ex- 
cept in winter time, when the stream is too 
turbid and impetuous for boating, rendered it 
difficult to get any skiff light enough to float. 
Shelley, however, overcame the difficulty ; he, 
together with a friend, contrived a boat such 
as the huntsmen carry about with them in the 
Maremma, to cross the sluggish but deep 



streams that intersect the forests, a boat of 
laths and pitched canvas ; it held three per- 
sons, and he was often seen on the Arno in it, 
to the horror of the Italians, who remonstrated 
on the danger, and could not understand how 
any one could take pleasure in an exercise that 
risked life. "Ma va per la vita!" they ex- 
claimed. I little thought how true their words 
would prove. He once ventured with a friend 
[Williams], on the glassy sea of a calm day, 
down the Arno and round the coast, to Leg- 
horn, which by keeping close in shore was very 
practicable. They returned to Pisa by the 
canal, when, missing the direct cut, they got 
entangled among weeds, and the boat upset ; 
a wetting was all the harm done except that 
the intense cold of his drenched clothes made 
Shelley faint. Once I went down with him to 
the mouth of the Arno, where the stream, then 
high and swift, met the tideless sea and dis- 
turbed its sluggish waters ; it was a waste and 
dreary scene ; the desert sand stretched into a 
point surrounded by waves that broke idly 
though perpetually around ; it was a scen« 
very similar to Lido, of which he had said, — 

' " I love all waste 
And solitary places, where we taste 
The pleasure of believing what we see 
Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be; 
And such was this wide ocean, and this shore 
More barren than its billows." 



402 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



' Our little boat was of greater use, unac- 
eompanied by any danger, when we removed 
to the baths. Some friends [the Williamses] 
lived at the village of Pugnano, four miles off, 
and we went to and fro to see them, in our boat, 
by the canal, which, fed by the Serchio, was. 
Uiough an artificial, a full and picturesque 
*treani, making its way under verdant banks, 
sheltered by trees that dipped their boughs 
into the murmuring waters. By day, multi- 
tudes of ephemera darted to and fro on the 
surface ; at night, the fireflies came out among 
the shrubs on the banks ; the cicale at noonday 
kept up their hum ; the aziola cooed in the 
quiet evening. It was a pleasant summer, 
bright in all but Shelley's health and inconstant 
spirits ; yet he enjoyed himself greatly, and 
became more and more attached to the part of 
the country where chance appeared to cast us. 
Sometimes he projected taking a farm, situated 
on the height of one of the near hills, sur- 
rounded by chestnut and pine woods, and over- 
looking a wide extent of country ; or of settling 
still further in the maritime Apennines, at 
Massa. Several of his slighter and unfinished 
poems were inspired by these scenes, and by 
the companions around us. It is the nature of 
that poetry, however, which overflows from the 



sou] , of tener to express sorrow and regret thar 
joy ; for it is when oppressed by the weight of 
life, and away from those he loves, that the poet 
has recourse to the solace of expression in verse. 
' Still Shelley's passion was the ocean ; and 
he wished that our summers, instead of being 
passed among the hills near Pisa, should be 
spent on the shores of the sea. It was very 
difficult to find a spot. We shrank from Na- 
ples from a fear that the heats would disagree 
with Percy ; Leghorn had lost its only attrac- 
tion, since our friends who had resided there 
were returned to England ; and Monte Nero 
being the resort of many English, we did not 
wish to find ourselves in the midst of a colony 
of chance travellers. No one then thought it 
possible to reside at Viareggio, which latterly 
has become a summer resort. The low lands 
and bad air of Maremma stretch the whole 
length of the western shores of the Mediter- 
ranean, till broken by the rocks and hills of 
Spezia. It was a vague idea ; but Shelley sug- 
gested an excursion to Spezia, to see whether 
it would be feasible to spend a summer there. 
The beauty of the bay enchanted him — we 
saw no house to suit us — but the notion took 
root, and many circumstances, enchained as by 
fatality, occurred to urge him to execute it.' 



DIRGE FOR THE YEAR 

Composed January 1, and published by Mrs. 
Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. 



Orphan hours, the year is dead, 
Come and sigh, come and weep ! 

Merry hours, smile instead, 
For the year is but asleep. 

See, it smiles as it is sleeping, 

Mocking your untimely weeping. 

II 

As an earthquake rocks a corse 

In its coffin in the clay, 
So White Winter, that rough nurse. 

Rocks the death-cold year to-day; 
Solemn hours ! wail aloud 
For your mother in her shroud. 

Ill 

As the wild air stirs and sways 
The tree-swung cradle of a child, 

So the breath of these rude days 

Rocks the year: — be calm and mild, 

Trembling hours; she will arise 

With new love within her eyes. 



IV 

January gray is here. 

Like a sexton by her grave; 

February bears the bier, 

March with grief doth howl and rave, 

And April weeps — but, O ye hours ! 

Follow with May's fairest flowers. 

TIME 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

Unfathomable Sea ! whose waves are 
years, 
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe 
Are brackish with the salt of human tears ! 
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb 
and flow 
Claspest the limits of mortality. 

And sick of prey, yet howling on for 
more, 
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable 
shore; 
Treacherous in calm, and terrible iD 
storm. 
Who shall put forth on thee. 
Unfathomable Sea ? 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 182 1 



403 



FROM THE ARABIC 

AN IMITATION 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 



My faint spirit was sitting in the light 
Of thy looks, my love; 
It panted for thee like the hind at noon 
For the brooks, my love. 
Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tem- 
pest's flight, 
Bore thee far from me; 
My heart, for my weak feet were weary 
soon, 
Did companion thee. 

II 

Ah ! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed. 
Or the death they bear. 
The heart which tender thought clothes 
like a dove 
With the wings of care; 
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need. 
Shall mine cling to thee, 
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, 
love. 
It may bring to thee. 

SONG 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 



Rarely, rarely, comest thou, 

Spirit of Delight ! 
Wherefore hast thou left me now 

Many a day and night ? 
Many a weary night and day 
'T is since thou art fled away. 

II 

How shall ever one like me 

Win thee back again ? 
With the joyous and the free 

Thou wilt scoff at pain. 
Spirit false ! thou hast forgot 
All but those who need thee not. 

Ill 

As a lizard with the shade 
Of a trembling leaf- 



Thou with sorrow art dismayed; 

Even the sighs of grief 
Reproach thee, that thou art not near 
And reproach thou wilt not hear. 

IV 

Let me set my mournful ditty 

To a merry measure; 
Thou wilt never come for pity, 

Thou wilt come for pleasure; 
Pity then will cut away 
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 



I love all that thou lovest. 

Spirit of Delight ! 
The fresh Earth in new leaves dressed. 

And the starry night; 
Autumn evening, and the morn 
When the golden mists are born. 

VI 

I love snow, and all the forms 

Of the radiant frost; 
I love waves, and winds, and storms. 

Everything almost 
Which is Nature's, and may be 
Untainted by man's misery. 

VII 

I love tranquil solitude, 

And such society 
As is quiet, wise, and good; 

Between thee and me 
What difference ? but thou dost possess 
The things I seek, not love them less. 

VIII 

I love Love — though he has wings, 

And like light can flee. 
But above all other things, 

Spirit, I love thee. 
Thou art love and life ! Oh, come, 
Make once more my heart thy home. 



TO NIGHT 



Published by 

Poems, 1824. 



Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 



Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, 

Spirit of Night! 
Out of the misty eastern cave. 
Where all the long and lone daylight 



404 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 
Swift be thy flight ! 

II 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; 
Kiss her until she be wearied out; 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long-sought ! 



Ill 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

1 sighed for thee; 
When light rode high, and the dew 

gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sighed for thee. 



was 



IV 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me ? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed. 
Murmured like a noontide bee, 
Shall I nestle near thy side ? 
Wouldst thou me ? — and I replied. 

No, not thee ! 



Death will come when thou art dead. 

Soon, too soon; 
Sleep will come when thou art fled; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night, — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon ! 



TO- 

Published by Mrs. 
Poems, 1824. 



Shelley, Posthumous 



Music, when soft voices die. 
Vibrates in the memory; 
Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead. 
Are heaped for the beloved's bed; 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone. 
Love itself shall slumber on. 



T0~ 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, 
Poems, 1824. 



Posthumous 



When passion's trance is overpast, 
If tenderness and truth could last. 
Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep 
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep, 
I should not weep, I should not weep ! 



II 



It were enough to feel, to see 

Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly, 

And dream the rest — and burn and be 

The secret food of fires unseen, 

Couldst thou but be as thou hast been. 



Ill 



After the slumber of the year 
The woodland violets reappear; 
All things revive in field or grove, 
And sky and sea, but two, which move 
And form all others, life and love. 



MUTABILITY 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 



The flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow dies; 
All that we wish to stay. 

Tempts and then flies. 
What is this world's delight? 
Lightning that mocks the night, 
Brief even as bright. 

II 

Virtue, how frail it is ! 

Friendship how rare ! 
Love, how it sells poor bliss 

For proud despair ! 
But we, though soon they fall, 
Survive their joy and all 
Which ours we call. 

Ill 

Whilst skies are blue and bright. 
Whilst flowers are gay. 

Whilst eyes that change ere night 
Make glad the day. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 182 1 



405 



Whilst yet the calm hours creep, 
Dream thou — and from thy sleep 
Then wake to weep. 

LINES 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

I 

Far, far away, O ye 
Halcyons of Memory, 
Seek some far calmer nest 
Than this abandoned breast ! 
No news of your false spring 
To my heart's winter bring; 
Once having gone, in vain 
Ye come again. 

II 

Vultures, who build your bowers 
High in the Future's towers, 
Withered hopes on hopes are spread ! 
Dying joys, choked by the dead. 
Will serve your beaks for prey 
Many a day. 

THE FUGITIVES 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

I 

The waters are flashing. 
The white hail is dashing, 
The lightnings are glancing, 
The hoar-spray is dancing — 
Away ! 

The whirlwind is rolling, 
The thunder is tolling, 
The forest is swinging, 
The minster bells ringing — 
Come away ! 

The Earth is like Ocean, 
Wreck-strewn and in motion; 
Bird, beast, man and worm 
Have crept out of the storm — 
Come away ! 

II 

* Our boat has one sail, 
A.nd the helmsman is pale; 



A bold pilot I trow. 
Who should follow us now,* — 
Shouted he; 

And she cried, ' Ply the oar; 
Put off gayly from shore ! ' — 
As she spoke, bolts of death 
Mixed with hail specked their path 
O'er the sea. 

And from isle, tower and rock, 
The blue beacon cloud broke 
And though dumb in the blast, 
The red cannon flashed fast 
From the lee. 



in 

And fear'st thou, and fear'st thou ? 
And see'st thou, and hear'st thou ? 
And drive we not free 
O'er the terrible sea, 
I and thou ? ' 

One boat-cloak did cover 
The loved and the lover; 
Their blood beats one measure^ 
They murmur proud pleasure 
Soft and low; 

While around the lashed Ocean, 
Like mountains in motion, 
Is withdrawn and uplifted. 
Sunk, shattered and shifted 
To and fro. 

IV 

In the court of the fortress 
Beside the pale portress. 
Like a bloodhound well beaten 
The bridegroom stands, eaten 
By shame; 

On the topmost watch-turret. 
As a death-boding spirit, 
Stands the gray tyrant father c^ 
To his voice the mad weather 
Seems tame; 

And with curses as wild 
As e'er clung to child. 
He devotes to the blast 
The best, loveliest, and last 
Of his name 1 



4o6 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



LINES 

W^RITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE 
DEATH OF NAPOLEON 

Published with Hellas, 1821. 

What ! alive and so bold, O Earth ? 
Art thou not over-bold ? 
What ! leapest thou forth as of old 
In the light of thy morning mirth, 
The last of the flock of the starry fold ? 
Ha ! leapest thou forth as of old ? 
Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled, 
And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead? 

How ! is not thy quick heart cold ? 
What spark is alive on thy hearth? 
How ! is not his death-knell knolled ? 
And livest thou still. Mother Earth ? 
Thou wert warming thy fingers old 
O'er the embers covered and cold 
Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled; 
What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead? 

* Who has known me of old,' replied 

Earth, 

* Or who has my story told ? 
It is thou who art over-bold.' 

And the lightning of scorn laughed forth 
As she sung, * To my bosom I fold 
All my sons when their knell is knolled. 
And so with living motion all are fed. 
And the quick spring like weeds out of the 
dead. 

* Still alive and still bold,' shouted Earth, 

* I grow bolder, and still more bold. 
The dead fill me ten thousand-fold 

Fuller of speed, and splendor, and mirth. 

I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold, 

Like a frozen chaos uproUed, 
Till by the spirit of the mighty dead 
My heart grew warm. I feed on whom I fed. 

* Ay, alive and still bold,' muttered Earth, 

' Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled, 
In terror, and blood, and gold, 
A torrent of ruin to death from his birth. 
Leave the millions who follow to mould 
The metal before it be cold; 
And weave into his shame, which like the 

dead 
Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory 
fled/ 



SONNET 

POLITICAL GREATNESS 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame, 
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms 

or arts. 
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes 

tame ; 
Verse echoes not one beatingof their hearts, 
History is but the shadow of their shame. 
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant 

starts 
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet. 
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery 
Of their own likeness. What are numbers 

knit 
By force or custom? Man who man would be 
Must rule the empire of himself; in it 
Must be supreme, establishing his throne 
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy 
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone. 



A BRIDAL SONG 

The poem was composed for insertion in a 
projected play of Williams, The Promise, or a 
Year, a Month, and a Day. Published by 
Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. 



The golden gates of sleep unbar 

Where strength and beauty, met to- 
gether, 
Kindle their image like a star 
In a sea of glassy weather ! 
Night, with all thy stars look down; 

Darkness, weep thy holiest dew; 
Never smiled the inconstant moon 

On a pair so true. 
Let eyes not see their own delight; — 
Haste, swift hour, and thy flight 
Oft renew. 

II 

Fairies, sprites, and angels, keep her f 

Holy stars, permit no wrong ! 
And return to wake the sleeper. 

Dawn, — ere it be long. 
O joy ! O fear! what will be done 
In the absence of the sun! 
Come along ! 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 182 1 



407 



EPITHALAMIUM 
Published by Medwin, Life of Shelley^ 1847. 

Night, with all thine eyes look down ! 

Darkness, shed its holiest dew ! 
When ever smiled the inconstant moon 

On a pair so true ? 
Hence, coy hour ! and quench thy light, 
Lest eyes see their own delight! 
Hence, swift hour ! and thy loved flight 
Oft renew. 

BOYS 

O joy ! O fear ! what may be done 
In the absence of the sun ? 

Come along ! 

The golden gates of sleep unbar ! 

Wben strength and beauty meet together, 
Kindles their image like a star 

In a sea of glassy weather. 
Hence, coy hour ! and quench thy light, 
Lest eyes see their own delight ! 
Hence, swift hour ! and thy loved flight 
Oft renew. 

GIRLS 

O joy ! O fear ! what may be done 
In the absence of the sun ? 

Come along ! 
Fairies ! sprites ! and angels keep her ! 

Holiest powers, permit no wrong ! 
And return, to wake the sleeper. 

Dawn, ere it be long. 
Hence, swift hour ! and quench thy light, 
Lest eyes see their own delight ! 
Hence, coy hour ! and thy loved flight 
Oft renew. 

BOYS AND GIRLS 

O joy ! O fear ! what will be done 
In the absence of the sun ? 

Come along ! 

ANOTHER VERSION 
Published by Rosaetti, 1870. 

BOYS SING 

Night ! with all thine eyes look down ! 

Darkness ! weep thy holiest dew ! 
Never smiled the inconstant moon 

On a pair so true. 



Haste, coy hour ! and quench all light, 
Lest eyes see their own delight ! 
Haste, swift hour ! and thy loved flight 
Oft renew ! 

GIKLS SING 

Fairies, sprites, and angels, keep her ! 

Holy stars ! permit no wrong ! 
And return to wake the sleeper. 

Dawn, ere it be long ! 
O joy ! O fear ! there is not one 
Of us can guess what may be done 
In the absence of the sun: — 
Come along ! 

BOYS 

Oh, linger long, thou envious eastern lamp 
In the damp 

Caves of the deep ! 

GIRLS 

Nay, return. Vesper ! urge thy lazy car ! 
Swift unbar 

The gates of Sleep ! 

CHORUS 

The golden gate of Sleep unbar, 

When Strength and Beauty, met to- 
gether, 

Kindle their image, like a star 
In a sea of glassy weather. 

May the purple mist of love 

Round them rise, and with them move, 

Nourishing each tender gem 

Which, like flowers, will burst from them. 

As the fruit is to the tree 

May their children ever be ! 

EVENING 

PONTE AL MARE, PISA 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

I 

The sun is set; the swallows are asleep; 

The bats are flitting fast in the gray air ; 
The slow soft toads out of damp corners 
creep, 
And evening's breath, wandering here 
and there 
Over the quivering surface of the stream. 
Wakes not one ripple from its summer 
dream. 



4o8 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



II 

There is no dew on the dry grass to-night, 
Nor damp within the shadow of the 
trees; 
The wind is intermitting, dry, and light; 
And in the inconstant motion of the 
breeze 
The dust and straws are driven up and 

down, 
And whirled about the pavement of the 
town. 

Ill 

Within the surface of the fleeting river 
The wrinkled image of the city lay, 

Immovably unquiet, and forever 

It trembles, but it never fades away; 

Go to the 

You, being changed, will find it then as 
now. 

IV 

The chasm in which the sun has sunk is 

shut 
By darkest barriers of enormous cloud, 
Like mountain over mountain huddled — 

but 
Growing and moving upwards in a 

crowd. 
And over it a space of watery blue, 
Which the keen evening star is shining 

through. 



THE AZIOLA 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, The Keepsake, 
1829. 



* Do you not hear the Aziola cry ? 
Methinks she must be nigh,' 
Said Mary, as we sate 
In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles 
brought; 
And I, who thought 
This Aziola was some tedious woman, 

Asked, * Who is Aziola ? ' How elate 
I felt to know that it was nothing human, 
No mockery of myself to fear or hate ! 
And Mary saw my soul. 
And laughed, and paid, 'Disquiet yourself 
not, 
'Tis nothing but a little downy owl.' 



II 

Sad Aziola ! many an eventide 

Thy music I had heard 
By wood and stream, meadow and moun* 
tain-side. 

And fields and marshes wide, — 
Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor 
bird. 

The soul ever stirred; 
Unlike and far sweeter than them all. 
Sad Aziola ! from that moment I 

Loved thee and thy sad cry. 



TO 



Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 



One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdained 

For thee to disdain it; 
One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother. 
And pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 

II 

I can give not what men call love, 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the Heavens reject not, — 
The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 



REMEMBRANCE 

Shelley sent these lines enclosed in a letter 
to Mrs. Williams : ' Dear Jane, — If this mel- 
ancholy old song' suits any of your tunes, or 
any that humor of the moment may dictate, 
you are welcome to it. Do not say it is mine 
to any one, even if you think so ; indeed, it is 
from the torn leaf of a book out of date. How 
are you to-day, and how is Williams ? Tell 
him that I dreamed of nothing- but sailing 
and fishing up coral. Your ever affectionate 
P. B. S.' It was published by Mrs. Shelley. 
Posthumous Poems, 1824. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN iS2t 



409 



Swifter far than summer's flight, 
Swifter far than youth's delight, 
Swifter far than happy night, 

Art thou come and gone. 
As the wood when leaves are shed, 
As the night when sleep is fled. 
As the heart when joy is dead, 

I am left lone, alone. 

II 

The swallow summer comes again, 
The owlet night resumes his reign, 
But the wild swan youth is fain 

To fly with thee, false as thou. 
My heart each day desires the morrow; 
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow; 
Vainly would my winter borrow 

Sunny leaves from any bough. 

Ill 

Lilies for a bridal bed, 
Roses for a matron's head, 
Violets for a maiden dead — 

Pansies let my flowers be; 
On the living grave I bear, 
Scatter them without a tear — 
Let no friend, however dear, 

Waste one hope, one fear for me. 



TO EDWARD WILLIAMS 
Published by Ascham, 1834. 



The serpent is shut out from paradise. 
The wounded deer must seek the herb 
no more 
In which its heart-cure lies; 
The widowed dove must cease to haunt 
a bower. 
Like that from which its mate with 
feigned sighs 
Fled in the April hour. 
I, too, must seldom seek again 
Near happy friends a mitigated pain. 

II 

Of hatred I am proud, — with scorn con- 
tent; 
Indifference, that once hurt me, now is 
grown 
Itself indifferent; 
But, not to speak of love, pity alone 



Can break a spirit already more than 
bent. 
The miserable one 
Turns the mind's poison into food, — 
Its medicine is tears, — its evil good. 

Ill 

Therefore if now I see you seldomer, 
Dear friends, desir friend! know that I 
only fly 
Your looks, because they stir 
Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that 
cannot die. 
The very comfort that they minister 
I scarce can bear; yet I, 
So deeply is the arrow gone. 
Should quickly perish if it were with- 
drawn. 

IV 

When I return to my cold home, you 
ask 
Why I am not as I have ever been. 

You spoil me for the task 
Of acting a forced part in life's dull 
scene. 
Of wearing on my brow the idle mask 
Of author, great or mean. 
In the world's carnival. I sought 
Peace thus, and but in you I found it 
not. 



Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot 
With various flowers, and every one still 
said, 
'.She loves me — loves me not.' 
And if this meant a vision long since 
fled — 
If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of 
thought — 
If it meant, — but I dread 
To speak what you may know too well: 
Still there was truth in the sad oracle. 

VI 

The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her 
home ; 
No bird so wild but has its quiet nest, 

When it no more would roam; 
The sleepless billows on the ocean's 
breast 
Break like a bursting heart, and die in 
foatn, 
And thus at length find rest: 



410 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Doubtless there is a place of peace 
Where my weak heart and all its throbs 
will cease. 



VII 

I asked her, yesterday, if she believed 
That I had resolution. One who had 

Would ne'er have thus relieved 
His heart with words, — but what his 
judgment bade 
Would do, and leave the scorner unre- 
lieved. 
These verses are too sad 
To send to you, but that I know, 
Happy yourself, you feel another's woe. 



TO-MORROW 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

Where art thou, beloved To-morrow ? 

When young and old, and strong and 
weak. 
Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow. 

Thy sweet smiles we ever seek, — 
In thy place — ah ! well-a-day ! 
We find the thing we fled — To-day. 



LINES 
Published by Rosseirti, 1870. 

If I walk in Autumn's even 

While the dead leaves pass. 
If I look on Spring's soft heaven, — 

Something is not there which was. 
Winter's wondrous frost and snow, 
Summer's clouds, where are they now ? 

A LAMENT 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

I 

O WORLD ! O life ! O time ! 
On whose last steps I climb. 

Trembling at that where I had stood 
before ; 
When will return the glory of your prime ? 
No more — oh, never more ! 

II 

Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight; 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter 
hoar. 
Move my faint heart with grief, but with 
delight 
No more — oh, never more ! 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822 



The last months of Shelley's life were passed 
at Pisa and Lerici. The incidents, and the 
general character of the household with its 
group of friends, are minutely recorded in 



Mrs. Shelley's long note, in Trelawny's Rec- 
ords, and in nearly all biographies of later date. 
A brief narrative is inadequate to tell the 
story. 



LINES 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 182^ 



When the lamp is shattered, 
The light in the dust lies dead; 

When the cloud is scattered, 
The rainbow's glory is shed; 

When the lute is broken. 
Sweet tones are remembered not; 

When the lips have spoken, 
r>oved accents are soon forgot. 



II 

As music and splendor 
Survive not the lamp and the lute, 

The heart's echoes render 
No song when the spirit is mute: — 

No song but sad dirges. 
Like the wind through a ruined cell. 

Or the mournful surges 
That ring the dead seaman's knell. 

Ill 

When hearts have once mingled. 
Love first leaves the well-built nest; 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822 



411 



The weak one is singled 
To endure what it once possessed. 

O Love ! who bevvailest 
The frailty of all things here, 

Why choose you the frailest 
For your cradle, your home, and your 
bier? 

IV 

Its passions will rock thee, 
As the storms rock the ravens on high; 

Bright reason will mock thee, 
Like the sun from a wintry sky. 

From thy nest every rafter 
Will rot, and thine eagle home 

Leave thee naked to laughter. 
When leaves fall and cold winds come. 



THE MAGNETIC LADY TO HER 
PATIENT 

Shelley wrote on this poem, ' For Jane and 
Williams only to see.' Medwin, who published 
it. The AthencBum, 1832, gives an account of 
the experiments out of which it grew, in his 
Shelley Papers : ' Shelley was a martyr to a 
most painful complaint, which constantly men- 
aced to terminate fatally ; and was subject to 
violent paroxysms which, to his irritable nerves, 
were each a separate death. I had seen mag- 
netism practised in India and at Paris, and at 
his earnest request consented to try its efficacy. 
Mesraer himself could not have hoped for more 
complete success. The imposition of my hand 
on his forehead instantaneously put a stop to 
the spasm, and threw him into a magnetic 
sleep, which for want of a better word is called 
somnambulism. Mrs. Shelley and another lady 
[Mrs. Williams] were present. The experi- 
ment was repeated more than once. During 
his trances I put some questions to him. He 
always pitched his voice in the same tone as 
mine. I enquired about his complaint, and its 
cure — the usual magnetic enquiries. His 
reply was, " What would cure me would kill 
me "... [Shelley answered in Italian.] He 
improvised also verses in Italian, in which lan- 
guage he was never known to write poetry.' 
Medwin adds, in his Life of Shelley : ' After 
my departure from Pisa he was magnetized by 
a lady, which gave rise to the beautiful stanzas 
entitled The Magnetic Lady to her Patient, and 
during which operation he made the same re- 
ply to an enquiry as to his disease and its cure 
as he had done to me, — " What would cure 
me would kill me." . . . Mrs. Shelley also 
magnetized him, but soon discontinued the 



practice, from finding that he got up in his 
sleep, and went one night to the window (for- 
tunately barred), having taken to his old habit 
of sleep-walking, which I mentioned, in his 
boyhood and also in London.' 



* Sleep, sleep on ! forget thy pain; 

My hand is on thy brow, 
My spirit on thy brain; 
My pity on thy heart, poor friend; 

And from my fingers flow 
The powers of life, and like a sign, 

Seal thee from thine hour of woe; 
And brood on thee, but may not blend 
With thine. 

II 

'Sleep, sleep on ! I love thee not; 

But when I think that he 
Who made and makes my lot 
As full of flowers, as thine of weeds. 

Might have been lost like thee; 
And that a hand which was not mine 

Might then have charmed his agony 
As I another's — my heart bleeds 
For thine. 

Ill 

* Sleep, sleep, and with the slumber of 

The dead and the unborn 
Forget thy life and love; 
Forget that thou must wake forever; 

Forget the world's dull scorn; 
Forget lost health, and the divine 

Feelings which died in youth's brief 
morn ; 
And forget me, for I can never 
Be thine. 

IV 

' Like a cloud big with a May shower, 

My soul weeps healing rain 
On thee, thou withered flower; 
It breathes mute music on thy sleep; 

Its odor calms thy brain ! 
Its light within thy gloomy breast 

Spreads like a second youth again. 
By mine thy being is to its deep 
Possessed. 



' The spell is done. How feel you now ? ' 

* Better — quite well,' replied 
The sleeper, — ' What would do 



412 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



You good when suffering and awake ? 

What cure your head and side ? ' 
* What would cure, that would kill me, 
Jane; 
And as I must on earth abide 
Awhile, yet tempt me not to break 
My chain.' 

TO JANE 

THE INVITATION 

Williams, in his Journal, February 2, de- 
scribes such an excursion : ' Fine warm day. 
Jane accompanies Mary and S. to the sea-shore 
through the Cascine. They return about 
three.' The poem was published by Mrs. 
Shelley, in an earlier form, in Posthumous 
Poems, 1824, and, as here given, in her second 
collected edition, 1839. 

Best and brightest, come away ! 
Fairer far than this fair Day, 
Which, like thee to those in sorrow. 
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 
To the rough Year just awake 
In its cradle on the brake. 
The brightest hour of unborn Spring 
Through the winter wandering, 
Found it seems the halcyon Morn, 
To hoar February born. lo 

Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, 
It kissed the forehead of the Earth, 
And smiled upon the silent sea, 
And bade the frozen streams be free, 
And waked to music all their fountains, 
And breathed upon the frozen mountains, 
And like a prophetess of May 
Strewed flowers upon the barren way. 
Making the wintry world appear 
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 20 

Away, away, from men and towns, 

To the wild wood and the downs; 

To the silent wilderness 

Where the soul need not repress 

Its music, lest it should not find 

An echo in another's mind. 

While the touch of Nature's art 

Harmonizes heart to heart. 

I leave this notice on my door 

For each accustomed visitor: — 30 

* I am gone into the fields 

To take what this sweet hour yields. 

Reflection, you may come to-morrow. 

Sit by the fireside with Sorrow. 



You with the unpaid bill. Despair, — - 
You, tiresome verse-reciter. Care, — » 
I will pay you in the grave, — 
Death will listen to your stave. 
Expectation too, be off ! 
To-day is for itself enough. 40 

Hope, in pity mock not Woe 
With smiles, nor follow where I go; 
Long having lived on thy sweet food, 
At length I find one moment's good 
After long pain — with all your love, 
This you never told me of.' 

Radiant Sister of the Day, 

Awake ! arise ! and come away ! 

To the wild woods and the plains, 

And the pools where winter rains 5* 

Image all their roof of leaves, 

Where the pine its garland weaves 

Of sapless green, and ivy dun, 

Round stems that never kiss the sun; 

Where the lawns and pastures be 

And the sand-hills of the sea; 

Where the melting hoar-frost wets 

The daisy-star that never sets. 

And wind-flowers and violets. 

Which yet join not scent to hue, 60 

Crown the pale year weak and new: 

When the night is left behind 

In the deep east, dun and blind, 

And the blue noon is over us, 

And the multitudinous 

Billows murmur at our feet, 

Where the earth and ocean meet. 

And all things seem only one. 

In the universal sun. 

THE RECOLLECTION 

Shelley sent the lines to Mrs. Williams — 
* not to be opened unless you are alone or with 
Williams.' 

I 
Now the last day of many days. 
All beautiful and bright as thou. 

The loveliest and the last, is dead, — 
Rise, Memory, and write its praise ! 
Up, — to thy wonted work ! come, trace 

The epitaph of glory fled, 
For now the Earth has changed its face, 
A frown is on the Heaven's brow. 

II 

We wandered to the Pine Forest 
That skirts the Ocean's foam, 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822 



413 



The lightest wind was in its nest, 

The tempest in its home. 
The whispering waves were half asleep, 

The clouds were gone to play, 
And on the bosom of the deep 

The smile of Heaven lay; 
It seemed as if the hour were one 

Sent from beyond the skies, 
Which scattered from above the sun 

A light of Paradise. 

Ill 

We paused amid the pines that stood 

The giants of the waste. 
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude 

As serpents interlaced, 
And soothed by every azure breath. 

That under heaven is blown. 
To harmonies and hues beneath. 

As tender as its own; 
Now all the treetops lay asleep. 

Like green waves on the sea. 
As still as in the silent deep 

The ocean woods may be. 

IV 

How calm it was ! — the silence there 

By such a chain was bound 
That even the busy woodpecker 

Made stiller by her sound 
The inviolable quietness; 

The breath of peace we drew 
With its soft motion made not less 

The calm that round us grew. 
There seemed, from the remotest seat 

Of the white mountain waste 
To the soft flower beneath our feet, 

A magic circle traced, 
A spirit interfused around, 

A thrilling silent life, — 
To momentary peace it bound 

Our mortal nature's strife; 
And still I felt the centre of 

The magic circle there 
Was one fair form that filled with love 

The lifeless atmosphere. 



We paused beside the pools that lie 
Under the forest bough, — 

Each seemed as 't were a little sky 
Gulfed in a world below; 

A firmament of purple light, 
Which in the dark earth lay, 



More boundless than the depth of nights 

And purer than the day, — 
In which the lovely forests grew, 

As in the upper air. 
More perfect both in shape and hue 

Than any spreading there. 
There lay the glade and neighboring lawn. 

And through the dark green wood 
The white sun twinkling like the dawn 

Out of a speckled cloud. 
Sweet views which in our world above 

Can never well be seen, 
Were imaged by the water's love 

Of that fair forest green. 
And all was interfused beneath 

With an Elysian glow, 
An atmosphere without a breath, 

A softer day below. 
Like one beloved the scene had lent 

To the dark water's breast, 
Its every leaf and lineament 

With more than truth expressed; 
Until an envious wind crept by. 

Like an unwelcome thought, 
Which from the mind's too faithful eye 

Blots one dear image out. 
Though thou art ever fair and kind. 

The forests ever green, 
Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind, 

Than calm in waters seen. 



WITH A GUITAR: TO JANE 

Shelley originally intended to give a harp to 
Mrs. Williams, and wrote to Horace Smith with 
regard to its purchase. The suggestion for the 
poem is found by Dr. Garnett in the fact that 
' the front portion of the guitar is made of 
Swiss pine.' He continues: 'It is now clear 
how the poem took shape in Shelley's mind. 
The actual thought of the imprisonment of the 
Spirit of Music in the material of the instru- 
ment sug-gested Ariel's penance in the cloven 
pine ; the identification of himself with Ariel 
and of Jane Williams with Miranda was the 
easiest of feats to his brilliant imagination; 
and hence an allegory of unequalled grace and 
charm, which could never have existed if the 
instrument had not been partly made of pine 
wood. The back, it should be added, is of 
mahogany, the finger board of ebony, and 
minor portions, chiefly ornamental, of some 
wood not identified. It was made by Ferdi- 
nando Bottari of Pisa in 1816. Having been 
religiously preserved since Shelley's death, it 
is in as perfect condition as when made. Th« 



414 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



strings, it is said, are better than those that are 
produced now. 

' This guitar is also in a measure the subject 
of another of Shelley's most beautiful lyrics, 
" The keen stars were twinkling." In a letter 
dated June 18, 1822, speaking of his cruises 
" in the evening wind under the summer moon," 
he adds, "Jane brings her guitar." There is 
probably no other relic of a great poet so in- 
timately associated with the arts of poetry and 
music, or ever will be, unless Milton's organ 
should turn up at a broker's or some excavat- 
ing explorer should bring to light the lyre of 
Sappho.' 

The guitar was given to the Bodleian Li- 
brary by E. W. Silsbee, of Salem, Mass., who 
bought it of the grandson of Mrs. Williams on 
condition that it should be so disposed of. The 
composition of the poem is described by Tre- 
lawny : ' The strong light streamed through 
the opening of the trees. One of the pines, 
undermined by the water, had fallen into it. 
Under its lee, and nearly hidden, sat the Poet, 
gazing on the dark mirror beneath, so lost in 
his bardish reverie that he did not hear my 
approach. . . . The day I found Shelley in the 
pine-forest he was writing verses on a guitar. 
I picked up a fragment, but could only make 
out the first two lines. ... It was a frightful 
scrawl ; words smeared out with his finger, and 
one upon the other, over and over in tiers, and 
all run together " in most admired disorder ; " 
it might have been taken for a sketch of a 
marsh overrun with bulrushes, and the blots 
for wild ducks ; such a dashed-off daub as 
self-conceited artists mistake for a manifesta- 
tion of genius.' The poem was published by 
Medwin, in two parts, The Athenoeum, 1832, and 
Fraser's, 1833. 



Ariel to Miranda: — Take 
This slave of Music, for the sake 
Of him who is the slave of thee; 
And teach it all the harmony 
In which thou canst, and only thou, 
Make the delighted spirit glow, 
Till joy denies itself again, 
And, too intense, is turned to pain. 
For by permission and command 
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 
Poor Ariel sends this silent token 
Of more than ever can be spoken; 
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who 
From life to life must still pursue 
Your happiness, — for thus alone 
Can Ariel ever find his own. 
From Prosperous enchanted cell, 
As the mighty verses tell, 



To the throne of Naples he 

Lit you o'er the trackless sea, zc 

Flitting on, your prow before, 

Like a living meteor. 

When you die, the silent Moon, 

In her interlunar swoon. 

Is not sadder in her cell 

Than deserted ArieL 

When you live again on earth, 

Like an unseen star of birth 

Ariel guides you o'er the sea 

Of life from your nativity. 30 

Many changes have been run 

Since Ferdinand and you begun 

Your course of love, and Ariel still 

Has tracked your steps and served your 

will; 
Now in humbler, happier lot. 
This is all remembered not; 
And now, alas ! the poor sprite is 
Imprisoned, for some fault of his, 
In a body like a grave. 
From you, he only dares to crave, 40 

For his service and his sorrow, 
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 

The artist who this idol wrought 

To echo all harmonious thought. 

Felled a tree, while on the steep 

The woods were in their winter sleep, 

Rocked in that repose divine 

On the wind-swept Apennine; 

And dreaming, some of Autumn past. 

And some of Spring approaching fast, 50 

And some of April buds and showers. 

And some of songs in July bowers. 

And all of love ; and so this tree — 

Oh, that such our death may be ! — 

Died in sleep, and felt no pain. 

To live in happier form again: 

From which, beneath Heaven's fairest 

star, 
The artist wrought this loved guitar. 
And taught it justly to reply. 
To all who question skilfully, 6f 

In language gentle as thine own; 
Whispering in enamoured tone 
Sweet oracles of woods and dells. 
And summer winds in sylvan cells; 
For it had learned all harmonies 
Of the plains and of the skies. 
Of the forests and the mountains, 
And the many-voiced fountains; 
The clearest echoes of the hills. 
The softest notes of falling; rills, /• 



POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822 



415 



The melodies of birds and bees, 

The murmuring of summer seas, 

And pattering rain, and breathing dew, 

And airs of evening; and it knew 

That seldom-heard mysterious sound. 

Which, driven on its diurnal round, 

As it floats through boundless day, 

Our world enkindles on its way. 

All this it knows, but will not tell 

To those who cannot question well 80 

The spirit that inhabits it; 

It talks according to the wit 

Of its companions; and no more 

Is heard than has been felt before 

By those who tempt it to betray 

These secrets of an elder day. 

But, sweetly as its answers will 

Flatter hands of perfect skill, 

It keeps its highest, holiest tone 

For our beloved Jane alone. 90 

TO JANE 

Shelley sent the lines to Mrs. Williams with 
a note. ' I sat down to write some words for 
an ariette which might be profane ; but it was 
in vain to strug-g-le with the ruling- spirit who 
compelled me to speak of things sacred to 
yours and to Wilhelm Meister's indulgence. I 
commit them to your secrecy and your mercy, 
and will try to do better another time.' 

The poem was published in part by Medwin, 
The Athenceum, 1832, and complete by Mrs. 
Shelley in her second collected edition, 1839. 



The keen stars were twinkling, 
And the fair moon was rising among them. 
Dear Jane. 
The guitar was tinkling. 
But the notes were not sweet till you sung 
them 
Again. 

II 

As the moon's soft splendor 
O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven 
Is thrown. 
So your voice most tender 
To the strings without soul had then given 
Its own. 

Ill 

The stars will awaken, 
Though the moon sleep a full hour later 
To-night ; 
No leaf will be shaken 



Whilst the dews of your melody scatter 
Delight. 

IV 

Though the sound overpowers. 
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing 
A tone 
Of some world far from ours. 
Where music and moonlight and feeling 
Are one. 

EPITAPH 

Publisked by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Foems, 1824. 

These are two friends whose lives were 

undivided ; 
So let their memory be, now they have 

glided 
Under the grave; let not their bones be 

parted. 
For their two hearts in life were single- 

hearted. 

THE ISLE 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous 
Poems, 1824. 

There was a little lawny islet 
By anemone and violet. 

Like mosaic, paven; 
And its roof was flowers and leaves 
Which the summer's breath enweaves, 
Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze 
Pierce the pines and tallest trees, 

Each a gem engraven; — 
Girt by many an azure wave 
With which the clouds and mountains pave 

A lake's blue chasm. 



A DIRGE 



Published by Mrs. 
Poems, 1824. 



Shelley, Posthumoui 



Rough wind, that moanest loud 
Grief too sad for song; 
Wild wind, when sullen cloud 
Knells all the night long; 
Sad storm, whose tears are vain. 
Bare woods whose branches strain 
Deep caves and dreary main, — 
Wail, for the world's wrong 



4i6 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY 
OF LERICI 

Published by Garnett, Macmillan's, 1862. 

She left me at the silent time 

When the moon had ceased to climb 

The azure path of Heaven's steep, 

And like an albatross asleep, 

Balanced on her wings of light. 

Hovered in the purple night. 

Ere she sought her ocean nest 

In the chambers of the West. 

She left me, and I stayed alone 

Thinking over every tone lo 

Which, though silent to the ear, 

The enchanted heart could hear. 

Like notes which die when born, but still 

Haunt the echoes of the hill; 

And feeling ever — oh, too much ! — 

The soft vibration of her touch, 

As if her gentle hand, even now. 

Lightly trembled on my brow; 

And thus, although she absent were, 

Memory gave me all of her 20 

That even Fancy dares to claim : — 

Her presence had made weak and tame 

All passions, and I lived alone 

In the time which is our own; 



The past and future were forgot. 
As they had been, and would be, not. 
But soon, the guardian angel gone, 
The djemon reassumed his throne 
In my faint heart. I dare not speak 
My thoughts, but thus disturbed 

weak 
I sat and saw the vessels glide 
Over the ocean bright and wide, 
Like spirit-winged chariots sent 
O'er some serenest element 
For ministrations strange and far; 
As if to some Elysian star 
They sailed for drink to medicine 
Such sweet and bitter pain as mine. 
And the wind that winged their flight 
From the land came fresh and light. 
And the scent of winged flowers. 
And the coolness of the hours 
Of dew, and sweet warmth left by day, 
Were scattered o'er the twinkling bay. 
And the fisher with his lamp 
And spear about the low rocks damp 
Crept, and struck the fish which came 
To worship the delusive flame. 
Too happy they, whose pleasure sought 
Extinguishes all sense and thought 
Of the regret that pleasure leaves, 
Destroying life alone, not peace ! 



and 



30 



4« 



Sc 



FRAGMENTS 



Under Fragments are included, with a few 
exceptions, incomplete poems, sketches and can- 
celled passages, and those more inchoate pas- 
sages which have been recovered from JShelley's 
notebooks. The exceptions are the Prologue 
to Hellas, which has been put with that drama, 
A Vision of the Sea, published by Shelley with 
the poems accompanying Prometheus Unbound, 
and five pieces, To Mary Wollstonecraft God- 
win, 1814, Death, An Allegori/, On the Medusa 
of Leonardo da Vinci, and Evening, Pisa, 
which, though lacking a word or a line, are in 
effect complete. The order of the Fragments 
is not strictly chronological in the first division, 
and is altogether arbitrary in the second. The 



THE DAEMON OF THE WORLD 

Nee tantum prod ere vati, 
Quautum scire licet. Venit setas otnnis in unam 
Congeriein, miserumque premunt tot saecula pectus. 
LucAN, Phars. v. 176-178. 

Shelley in his preface to Alastor, where this 
x»em was published, says : ' The Fragment 



dates assigned are those generally accepted^ 
but, as a rule, they are conjectural and approx- 
imate only, not exact. The text is derived 
from the editions of Mrs. Shelley, the studies of 
Dr. Garnett in the Boscombe MSS., published 
by him mainly in Relics of Shelley, 1862, or by 
Rossetti, 1870, and Rossetti's own studies both 
in the same and other MSS. of which the re- 
sults were given in his edition. A few pieces, 
originally published elsewhere, were also gath- 
ered by Rossetti and Forman in their edi- 
tions, and Forman was enabled to add some- 
thing more from independent MSS. The date 
and original publication of each piece are biiefly 
indicated under each poem. 

entitled The Dcemon of the World is a detached 
part of a poem which the author does not in- 
tend for publication. The metre in which it is 
composed is that of Samson Agonistes and the 
Italian pastoral drama, and may be considered 
as the natural measure into which poetical con- 
ceptions, expressed in harmonious language 
necessarily fall.' The poem is part of a revi 
sion of Queen Mab. 



FRAGMENTS 



417 



How wonderful is Death, 

Death and his brother Sleep ! 
One, pale as yonder wan and horned moon. 

With lips of lurid blue; 
The other, glowing like the vital morn 

When throned on ocean's wave 

It breathes over the world; 
Yet both so passing strange and wonder- 
ful ! 

Hath then the iron-sceptred Skeleton, 
Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres, 10 
To the hell dogs that couch beneath his 

throne 
Cast that fair prey ? Must that divinest 

form. 
Which love and admiration cannot view 
Without a beating heart, whose azure veins 
§teal like dark streams along a field of 

snow, 
Whose outline is as fair as marble clothed 
(n light of some sublimest mind, decay ? 

Nor putrefaction's breath 
Leave aught of this pure spectacle 

But loathsomeness and ruin ? 20 

Spare aught but a dark theme. 
On which the lightest heart might moral- 
ize ? 
Or is it but that downy- winged slumbers 
Have charmed their nurse, coy Silence, near 
her lids 
To watch their own repose ? 
Will they, when morning's beam 
Flows through those wells of light. 
Seek far from noise and day some western 

cave, 
Where woods and streams with soft and 
pausing winds 
A lulling murmur weave ? — 30 

lanthe doth not sleep 
The dreamless sleep of death; 
Nor in her moonlight chamber silently 
Doth Henry hear her regular pulses throb. 

Or mark her delicate cheek 
With interchange of hues mock the broad 
moon, 
Outwatching weary night. 
Without assured reward. 
Her dewy eyes are closed; 
On their translucent lids, whose texture 
fine 40 

Scarce hides the dark blue orbs that burn 
below 



With unapparent fire. 
The baby Sleep is pillowed; 
Her golden tresses shade 
The bosom's stainless pride, 
Twining like tendrils of the parasite 
Around a marble column. 

Hark ! whence that rushing sound ? 
'T is like a wondrous strain that 

sweeps 
Around a lonely ruin 50 

When west winds sigh and evening waves 
respond 
In whispers from the shore: 
'T is wilder than the unmeasured notes 
Which from the unseen lyres of dells and 
groves 
The genii of the breezes sweep. 

Floating on waves of music and of light 
The chariot of the Daemon of the World 

Descends in silent power. 
Its shape reposed within; slight as some 

cloud 
That catches but the palest tinge of day 60 

When evening yields to night; 
Brio^ht as that fibrous woof when stars 
endue 
Its transitory robe. 
Four shapeless shadows bright and beauti- 
ful 
Draw that strange car of glory; reins of 

light 
Check their unearthly speed; they stop and 
fold 
Their wings of braided air. 
The Daemon, leaning from the ethereal car. 

Gazed on the slumbering maid. 
Human eye hath ne'er beheld 70 

A shape so wild, so bright, so beautiful, 
As that which o'er the maiden's charmM 
sleep, 
Waving a starry wand, 
Hung like a mist of light. 
Such sounds as breathed around like odor- 
ous winds 
Of wakening spring arose. 
Filling the chamber and the moonlight sky. 

' Maiden, the world's supremest spirit 

Beneath the shadow of her wings 
Folds all thy memory doth inherit 8« 

From ruin of divinest things, — 
Feelings that lure thee to betray, 
And light of thoughts that pass away. 



4i8 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



*= For thou hast earned a mighty boon; 

The truths, which wisest poets see 
Dimly, thy mind may make its own, 
Rewarding its own majesty. 

Entranced in some diviner mood 
Of self-oblivious solitude. 

* Custom and Faith and Power thou spurn- 

est; 90 

From hate and awe thy heart is free; 
Ardent and pure as day thou burnest, 
For dark and cold mortality 
A living light, to cheer it long. 
The watch-fires of the world among. 

* Therefore from Nature's inner shrine, 

Where gods and fiends in worship bend, 
Majestic spirit, be it thine 

The flame to seize, the veil to rend, 
Where the vast snake Eternity 100 

In charmed sleep doth ever lie. 

* All that inspires thy voice of love. 

Or speaks in thy unclosing eyes. 
Or through thy frame doth burn or move. 

Or think or feel, awake, arise ! 
Spirit, leave for mine and me 
Earth's unsubstantial mimicry ! ' 

It ceased, and from the mute and move- 
less frame 

A radiant spirit arose. 
All beautiful in naked purity. no 

Robed in its human hues it did ascend. 
Disparting as it went the silver clouds 
It moved towards the car, and took its seat 

Beside the Daemon shape. 

Obedient to the sweep of aery song, 
The mighty ministers 

Unfurled their prismy wings. 
The magic car moved on. 

The night was fair — innumerable stars 
Studded heaven's dark blue vault; 120 
The eastern wave grew pale 
With the first smile of morn. 

The magic car moved on. 

From the swift sweep of wings 
The atmosphere in flaming sparkles flew; 

And where the burning wheels 
Eddied above the mountain's loftiest peak 

Was traced a line of lightning. 
Kow far above a rock, the utmost verge 

Of the wide earth, it flew, — 130 



The rival of the Andes, whose dark brow 
Frowned o'er the silver sea. 

Far, far below the chariot's stormy path, 

Calm as a slumbering babe. 

Tremendous ocean lay. 
Its broad and silent mirror gave to view 

The pale and waning stars, 

The chariot's fiery track, 

And the gray light of morn 

Tingeing those fleecy clouds 140 

That cradled in their folds the infant 
dawn. 

The chariot seemed to fly 
Through the abyss of an immense concave. 
Radiant with million constellations, tinged 

With shades of infinite color. 

And semicircled with a belt 

Flashing incessant meteors. 

As they approached their goal, 
The winged shadows seemed to gather 

speed. 
The sea no longer was distinguished; earth 
Appeared a vast and shadowy sphere, sus- 
pended 151 

In the black concave of heaven 

With the sun's cloudless orb, 

Whose rays of rapid light 
Parted around the chariot's swifter course. 
And fell like ocean's feathery spray 

Dashed from the boiling surge 

Before a vessel's prow. 

The magic car moved on. 
Earth's distant orb appeared 160 

The smallest light that twinkles in the 
heavens. 
Whilst round the chariot's way 
Innumerable systems widely rolled, 
And countless spheres diffused 
An ever- varying glory. 
It was a sight of wonder ! Some were 

horned. 
And like the moon's argentine crescent 

hung 
In the dark dome of heaven; some did shed 
A clear mild beam like Hesperus, while the 

sea 
Yet glows with fading sunlight; others 
dashed 170 

. Athwart the night with trains of bickering 

fire. 
Like sphered worlds to death and ruin 
driven : 



FRAGMENTS 



419 



Some shone like stars, and as the chariot 
passed 
Bedimmed all other light. 

Spirit of Nature ! here, 
In this interminable wilderness 
Of worlds, at whose involved immensity 

Even soaring fancy staggers, 

Here is thy fitting temple ! 

Yet not the lightest leaf x8o 

That quivers to the passing breeze 

Is less instinct with thee; 

Yet not the meanest worm, 
That lurks in graves and fattens on the 
dead. 

Less shares thy eternal breath. 

Spirit of Nature ! thou, 
Imperishable as this glorious scene, 

Here is thy fitting temple ! 

If solitude hath ever led thy steps 

To the shore of the immeasurable sea, 190 

And thou hast lingered there 

Until the sun's broad orb 
Seemed resting on the fiery line of ocean. 
Thou must have marked the braided webs 
of gold 

That without motion hang 

Over the sinking sphere; 
Thou must have marked the billowy moun- 
tain clouds, 
Edged with intolerable radiancy, 

Towering like rocks of jet 

Above the burning deep; 200 

And yet there is a moment, 

When the sun's highest point 
Peers like a star o'er ocean's western edge. 
When those far clouds of feathery purple 

gleam 
Like fairy lands girt by some heavenly 

sea; 
Then has thy rapt imagination soared 
Where in the midst of all existing things 
The temple of the mightiest Daemon stands. 

Yet not the golden islands 
That gleam amid yon flood of purple light. 

Nor the feathery curtains 211 

That canopy the sun's resplendent couch, 

Nor the burnished ocean waves 

Paving that gorgeous dome, 

So fair, so wonderful a sight 
As the eternal temple could afford. 
The elements of all that human thought 
CI«n frame of lovely or sublime did join 



To rear the fabric of the fane, nor aught 
Of earth may image forth its majesty. 220 
Yet likest evening's vault that faery hall; 
As heaven low resting on the wave it 

spread 
Its floors of flashing light. 
Its vast and azure dome; 
And on the verge of that obscure abyss, 
Where crystal battlements o'erhang the 

gulf 
Of the dark world, ten thousand spheres 

diffuse 
Their lustre through its adamantine gates. 

The magic car no longer moved. 

The Daemon and the Spirit 230 

Entered the eternal gates. 

Those clouds of aery gold. 

That slept in glittering billows 

Beneath the azure canopy. 
With the ethereal footsteps trembled not; 

While slight and odorous mists 
Floated to strains of thrilling melody 
Through the vast columns and the pearly 
shrines. 

The Daemon and the Spirit 
Approached the overhanging battlement. 
Below lay stretched the boundless uni- 
verse ! 241 

There, far as the remotest line 
That limits swift imagination's flight, 
Unending orbs mingled in mazy motion, 

Imuiutably fulfilling 

Eternal Nature's law. 

Above, below, around, 

The circling systems formed 

A wilderness of harmony — 

Each with undeviating aim 250 

In eloquent silence through the depths of 
space 

Pursued its wondrous way. 

Awhile the Spirit paused in ecstasy. 

Yet soon she saw, as the vast spheres swept 

by, 
Strange things within their belted orbs 

appear. 
Like animated frenzies, dimly moved 
Shadows, and skeletons, and fiendly shapes, 
Thronging round human graves, and o'er 

the dead 
Sculpturing records for each memory 
In verse, such as malignant gods pro- 
nounce, 364 



420 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Blasting the hopes of men, when heaven 
and hell 

Confounded burst in ruin o'er the world; 

And they did build vast trophies, instru- 
ments 

Of murder, human bones, barbaric gold. 

Skins torn from living men, and towers of 
skulls 

With sightless holes gazing on blinder 
heaven. 

Mitres, and crowns, and brazen chariots 
stained 

With blood, and scrolls of mystic wicked- 
ness. 

The sanguine codes of venerable crime. 

The likeness of a throned king came by, 

When these had passed, bearing upon his 
brow 271 

A threefold crown; his countenance was 
calm. 

His eye severe and cold; but his right hand 

Was charged with bloody coin, and he did 
gnaw 

By fits, with secret smiles, a human heart 

Concealed beneath his robe; and motley 
shapes, 

A multitudinous throng, around him knelt, 

With bosoms bare, and bowed heads, and 
false looks 

Of true submission, as the sphere rolled by. 

Brooking no eye to witness their foul 
shame, 280 

Which human hearts must feel, while hu- 
man tongues 

Tremble to speak ; thev did rage horribly, 

Breathing in srlf-cont' uipt tierce blas- 
phemies 

Against the Daemon of the World, and 
high 

Hurling their armfed hands where the pure 
Spirit, 

Serene and inaccessibly secure. 

Stood on an isolated pinnacle, 

The flood of ages combating below. 

The depth of the unbounded universe 

Above, and all around 290 

Necessity's unchanging harmony. 

THE D.EMON OF THE WORLD 

This second part of the poem was published 
by Forman, 1876, from a printed copy of 
Queen Mab^ on which Shelley had made MS. 
revisions, with a view to republication under 
the new title. 



II 

O HAPPY Earth ! reality of Heaven ! 

To which those restless powers that cease- 
lessly 

Throng through the human universe 
aspire ! 

Thou consummation of all mortal hope ! 

Thou glorious prize of blindly-working 
will. 

Whose rays, diffused throughout all space 
and time. 

Verge to one point and blend forever there ! 

Of purest spirits thou pure dwelling-place, 

Where care and sorrow, impotence and 
crime. 

Languor, disease, and ignorance dare not 
come ! 10 

O happy Earth, reality of Heaven ! 

Genius has seen thee in her passionate 
dreams. 
And dim forebodings of thy loveliness 
Haunting the human heart have there en- 
twined 
Those rooted hopes, that the proud Power 

of Evil 
Shall not forever on this fairest world 
Shake pestilence and war, or that his slaves 
With blasphemy for prayer, and human 

blood 
For sacrifice, before his shrine forever 
In adoration bend, or Erebus 20 

With all its banded fiends shall not uprise 
To overwhelm in envy and revenge 
The dauntless and the good, who dare to 

hurl 
Defiance at his throne, girt though it be 
With Death's omnipotence. Thou hast be- 
held 
His empire, o'er the present and the past; 
It was a desolate sight — now gaze on mine, 
Futurity. Thou hoary giant Time, 
Render thou up thy half-devoured babes. 
And from the cradles of eternity, 30 

Where millions lie lulled to their portioned 

sleep 
By the deep murmuring stream of passing 

things, 
Tear thou that gloomy shroud ! Spirit, be- 
hold 
Thy glorious destiny ! 

The Spirit saw 
The vast frame of the renovated world 
Smile in the lap of Chaos, and the senae 



FRAGMENTS 



421 



Of hope through her fine texture did suffuse 
Such varying glow, as summer evening 

casts 
On undulating clouds and deepening lakes. 
Like the vague sighings of a wind at even, 
That wakes the wavelets of the slumbering 

sea 41 

And dies on the creation of its breath. 
And sinks and rises, fails and swells by fits. 
Was the sweet stream of thought that with 

mild motion 
Flowed o'er the Spirit's human sympathies. 
The mighty tide of thought had paused 

awhile, 
Which from the Daemon now like Ocean's 

stream 
Again began to pour. — 

To me is given 
The wonders of the human world to keep — 
Space, matter, time and mind — let the 

sight 50 

Renew and strengthen all thy failing hope. 
All things are recreated, and the flame 
Of consentaneous love inspires all life; 
The fertile bosom of the earth gives suck 
To myriads, who still grow beneath her care. 
Rewarding her with their pure perfectness; 
The balmy breathings of the wind inhale 
Her virtues, and diffuse them all abroad; 
Health floats amid the gentle atmosphere. 
Glows in the fruits, and mantles on the 

stream ; 60 

No storms deform the beaming brow of 

heaven, 
Nor scatter in the freshness of its pride 
The foliage of the undecaying trees; 
But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever fair, 
And Autumn proudly bears her matron 

grace, 
Kindling a flush on the fair cheek of Spring, 
Whose virgin bloom beneath the ruddy 

fruit 
Reflects its tint and blushes into love. 

The habitable earth is full of bliss; 
Those wastes of frozen billows that were 
hurled 70 

By everlasting snowstorms round the poles. 
Where matter dared nor vegetate nor live. 
But ceaseless frost round the vast solitude 
Bound its broad zone of stillness, are un- 
loosed; 
And fragrant zephyrs there from spicy isles 
Ruffle the placid ocean-deep, that rolls 
Its broad, bright surges to the sloping sand, 



Whose roar is wakened into echoings sweet 
To murmur through the heaven-breathing 

groves 
And melodize with man's blest nature there. 

The vast tract of the parched and sandy 

waste 81 

Now teems with countless rills and shady 

woods. 
Cornfields and pastures and white cottages; 
And where the startled wilderness did hear 
A savage conqueror stained in kindred blood 
Hymning his victory, or the milder snake 
Crushing the bones of some frail antelope 
Within his brazen folds, the dewy lawn. 
Offering sweet incense to the sunrise, smiles 
To see a babe before his mother's door 90 
Share with the green and golden basilisk, 
That comes to lick his feet, his morning's 
meal. 

Those trackless deeps, where many a 

weary sail 
Has seen above the illimitable plain 
Morning on night, and night on morning 

rise. 
Whilst still no land to greet the wanderer 

spread 
Its shadowy mountains on the sun-bright 

sea. 
Where the loud roarings of the tempest- 
waves 
So long have mingled with the gusty wind 
In melancholy loneliness, and swept 100 
The desert of those ocean solitudes 
But vocal to the sea-bird's harrowing shriek, 
The bellowing monster, and the rushing 

storm. 
Now to the sweet and many - mingling 

sounds 
Of kindliest human impulses respond; 
Those lonely realms bright garden-isles 

begem. 
With lightsome clouds and shining seas 

between. 
And fertile valleys, resonant with bliss, 
Whilst green woods overcanopy the wave, 
Which like a toil-worn laborer leaps to 

shore 1 10 

To meet the kisses of the flowerets there. 

Man chief perceives the change ; his 
being notes 
The gradual renovation, and defines 
Each movement of its progress on his mind 



422 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Man, where the gloom of the long polar 

night 
Lowered o'er the snow - clad rocks and 

frozen soil, 
Where scarce the hardest herb that braves 

the frost 
Basked in the moonlight's ineffectual glow, 
Shrank with the plants, and darkened with 

the night; 
Kor where the tropics bound the realms of 

day I20 

With a broad belt of mingling cloud and 

flame, 
Where blue mists through the unmoving 

atmosphere 
Scattered the seeds of pestilence, and fed 
Unnatural vegetation, where the land 
Teemed with all earthquake, tempest and 

disease, 
Was man a nobler being; slavery 
Had crushed him to his country's blood- 
stained dust. 

Even where the milder zone afforded man 
A seeming shelter, yet contagion there, 129 
Blighting his being with unnumbered ills. 
Spread like a quenchless fire; nor truth 

availed 
Till late to arrest its progress, or create 
That peace which first in bloodless victory 

waved 
Her snowy standard o'er this favored 

clime ; 
There man was long the train-bearer of 

slaves, 
The mimic of surrounding misery. 
The jackal of ambition's lion-rage, 
The bloodhound of religion's hungry zeal. 

Here now the human being stands adorn- 
ing 

This loveliest earth with taintless body and 
mind ; 140 

Blest from his birth wrth all bland im- 
pulses. 

Which gently in his noble bosom wake 

All kindly passions and all pure desires. 

Him, still from hope to hope the bliss pur- 
suing 

Which from the exhaustless lore of human 
weal 

Draws on the virtuous mind, the thoughts 
that rise 

In time-destroying infiniteness gift 

With self-enshrined eternity, that mocks 



The unprevailing hoariness of age; 

And man, once fleeting o'er the transient 

scene 150 

Swift as an unremembered vision, stands 
Immortal upon earth; no longer now 
He slays the beast that sports around his 

dwelling. 
And horribly devours its mangled flesh, 
Or drinks its vital blood, which like a 

stream 
Of poison through his fevered veins did 

flow 
Feeding a plague that secretly consumed 
His feeble frame, and kindling in his mind 
Hatred, despair, and fear and vain belief. 
The germs of misery, death, disease, and 

crime. i6o 

No longer now the winged habitants. 
That in the woods their sweet lives sing 

away. 
Flee from the form of man; but gather 

round, 
And prune their sunny feathers on the 

hands 
Which little children stretch in friendly 

sport 
Towards these dreadless partners of their 

play. 
All things are void of terror; man has lost 
His desolating privilege, and stands 
An equal amidst equals; happiness 
And science dawn though late upon the 

earth ; 170 

Peace cheers the mind, health renovates the 

frame ; 
Disease and pleasure cease to mingle here. 
Reason and passion cease to combat there; 
Whilst mind unfettered o'er the earth ex- 
tends 
Its all-subduing energies, and wields 
The sceptre of a vast dominion there. 

Mild is the slow necessity of death. 
The tranquil spirit fails beneath its grasp, 
Without a groan, almost without a fear. 
Resigned in peace to the necessity, 180 

Calm as a voyager to some distant land, 
And full of wonder, full of hope as he. 
The deadly germs of languor and disease 
Waste in the human frame, and Nature 

gifts 
With choicest boons her human worship- 
pers. 
How vigorous now the athletic form of 
age ! 



FRAGMENTS 



423 



How clear its open aud uuwrinkled brow ! 
Where neither avarice, cunning, pride, or 

care, 
Had stamped the zeal of gray deformity 
On all the mingling lineaments of time. 190 
How lovely the intrepid front of youth ! 
How sweet tlie smiles of taintless infancy. 

Within the massy prison's mouldering 

courts 
Fearless and free the ruddy children play, 
Weaving gay chaplets for their innocent 

brows 
With the green ivy and the red wall-flower, 
That mock the dungeon's unavailing gloom; 
The ponderous chains, and gratings of 

strong iron, 
There rust amid the accumulated ruins 
Now mingling slowly with their native 

earth ; 200 

There the broad beam of day, which feebly 

once 
Lighted the cheek of lean captivity 
With a pale and sickly glare, now freely 

shines 
On the pure smiles of infant playfulness; 
No more the shuddering voice of hoarse 

despair 
Peals through the echoing vaults, but 

soothing notes 
Of ivy-fingered winds and gladsome birds 
And merriment are resonant around. 

The fanes of Fear and Falsehood hear no 

more 
The voice that once waked multitudes to 

war 210 

Thundering through all their aisles, but 

now respond 
To the death dirge of the melancholy wind. 
It were a sight of awfulness to see 
The works of faith and slavery, so vast. 
So sumptuous, yet withal so perishing, 
Even as the corpse that rests beneath their 

wall! 
A thousand mourners deck the pomp of 

death 
To-day, the breathing marble glows above 
To decorate its memory, and tongues 
Are busy of its life; to-morrow, worms 220 
In silence and in darkness seize their 

prey. 
These ruins soon leave not a wreck behind ; 
Iheir elements, wide scattered o'er the 

globe. 



To happier shapes are moulded, and be- 
come 

Ministrant to all blissful impulses; 

Thus human things are perfected, and 
earth. 

Even as a child beneath its mother's love, 

Is strengthened in all excellence, and 
grows 

Fairer and nobler with each passing year. 

Now Time his dusky pennons o'er the 

scene 23a 

Closes in steadfast darkness, and the past 
Fades from our charmed sight. My task 

is done; 
Thy lore is learned. Earth's wonders are 

thine own, 
With all the fear and all the hope they 

bring. 
My spells are past; the present now recurs. 
Ah me ! a pathless wilderness remains 
Yet unsubdued by man's reclaiming hand. 

Yet, human Spirit, bravely hold thy 

course. 
Let virtue teach thee firmly to pursue 239 
The gradual paths of an aspiring change. 
For birth and life and death, and that 

strange state 
Before the naked powers, that through the 

world 
Wander like winds, have found a human 

home; 
All tend to perfect happiness, and urge 
The restless wheels of being on their way. 
Whose flashing spokes, instinct with infinite 

life. 
Bicker and burn to gain their destined 

goal; 
For birth but wakes the universal mind. 
Whose mighty streams might else in silence 

flow 
Through the vast world, to individual sense 
Of outward shows, whose unexperienced 

shape 251 

New modes of passion to its frame may 

lend; 
Life is its state of action, and the store 
Of all events is aggregated there 
That variegate the eternal universe; 
Death is a gate of dreariness and gloom, 
That leads to azure isles and beaming 

skies 
And happy regions of eternal hope. 
Therefore, O Spirit ! fearlessly bear on. 



424 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Though storms may break the primrose on 

its stalk, 260 

Though frosts may blight the freshness of 

its bloom, 
Yet spring's awakening breath will woo 

the earth 
To feed with kindliest dews its favorite 

flower. 
That blooms in mossy banks and darksome 

glens, 
Lighting the green wood with its sunny 

smile. 

Fear not then, Spirit, death's disrobing 

hand, 
So welcome when the tyrant is awake. 
So welcome when the bigot's hell-torch 

flares ; 
'T is but the voyage of a darksome hour. 
The transient gulf-dream of a startling 

sleep. 270 

For what thou art shall perish utterly. 
But what is thine may never cease to be; 
Death is no foe to virtue; earth has seen 
Love's brightest roses on the scafiPold 

bloom. 
Mingling with freedom's fadeless laurels 

there, 
And presaging the truth of visioned bliss. 
Are there not hopes within thee, which this 

scene 
Of linked and gradual being has confirmed ? 
Hopes that not vainly thou, and living fires 
Of mind, as radiant and as pure as thou 
Have shone upon the paths of men — re- 
turn 281 
Surpassing Spirit, to that world, where thou 
Art destined an eternal war to wage 
With tyranny and falsehood, and uproot 
The germs of misery from the human heart. 
Thine is the hand whose piety would soothe 
The thorny pillow of unhappy crime, 
Whose impotence an easy pardon gains, 
Watching its wanderings as a friend's 

disease ; 
Thine is the brow whose mildness would 

defy 290 

Its fiercest rage, and brave its sternest will. 
When fenced by power and master of the 

world. 
Thou art sincere and good; of resolute 

mind, 
Free from heart-withering custom's cold 

control, 
Of passion lofty, pure and unsubdued. 



Earth's pride and meanness could not van* 

quish thee. 
And therefore art thou worthy of the boon 
Which thou hast now received; virtue shall 

keep 
Thy footsteps in the path that thou hast 

trod, 299 

And many days of beaming hope shall bless 

Thy spotless life of sweet and sacred love. 

Go, happy one, and give that bosom joy 

Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch 

Light, life and rapture from thy smile- 

The Daemon called its winged ministers. 
Speechless with bliss the Spirit mounts the 

car, 
That rolled beside the crystal battlement. 
Bending her beamy eyes in thankfulness. 

The burning wheels inflame 
The steep descent of Heaven's untrodden 
way. 310 

Fast and far the chariot flew. 
The mighty globes that rolled 
Around the gate of the Eternal Fane 
Lessened by slow degrees, and soon ap» 

peared 
Such tiny twinklers as the planet orbs, 
That, ministering on the solar power. 
With borrowed light, pursued their nar- 
rower way. 
Earth floated then below. 
The chariot paused a moment; 
The Spirit then descended; 320 

And from the earth departing 
The shadows with swift wings 
Speeded like thought upon the light of 
Heaven. 

The Body and the Soul united then; 
A gentle start convulsed lanthe's frame; 
Hsr veiny eyelids quietly unclosed; 
Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs re- 
mained. 
She looked around in wonder and beheld 
Henry, who kneeled in silence by her couch, 
Watching her sleep with looks of speech- 
less love, 330 
And the bright beaming stars 
That throuo-h the casement shone. 

PRINCE ATHANASE 

Shelley writes in a note : ' The Author was 
pursuing a fuller development of the idoal 
character of Athanase. when it struck him that 



FRAGMENTS 



425 



in an attempt at extreme refinement and anal- 
ysis, his conceptions might be betrayed into 
the assuming- a morbid character. The reader 
will judge whether he is a loser or gainer by 
the difference.' 

Mrs. Shelley adds : ' The idea Shelley had 
formed of Prince Athanase Avas a good deal 
modelled on Alastor. In the first sketch of 
the poem, he named it Pandemos and Urania. 
Athanase seeks through the world the One 
whom he may love. He meets, in the ship in 
■yhich he is embarked, a lady who appears to 
iiira to embody his ideal of love and beauty. 
But she proves to be Pandemos, or the earthly 
and unworthy Venus ; who, after disappoint- 
ing his cherished dreams and hopes, deserts 
him. Athanase, crushed by sorrow, pines and 
dies. " On his deathbed, the lady who can 
really reply to his soul comes and kisses his 
lips." {The Deathbed of Athanase.) The poet 
describes her [ii. 155-160]. This slender note 
is all we have to aid our imagination in shap- 
ing out the form of the poem, such as its au- 
thor imagined.' Date, 1817. Published, IVIrs. 
Shelley, 1824. 

PART I 

There was a youth, who, as with toil and 

travel, 
Had grown quite weak and gray before his 

time; 
Nor any could the restless griefs unravel 

Which burned within him, withering up his 

prime 
And goading him, like fiends, from land to 

land. 
Not his the load of any secret crime, 

For nought of ill his heart could understand. 
But pity and wild sorrow for the same; 
Not his the thirst for glory or command. 

Baffled with blast of hope-consuming 

shame; 10 

Nor evil joys, which fire the vulgar breast 

And quench in speedy smoke its feeble 

flame, 

Had left within his soul their dark unrest; 
Nor what religion fables of the grave 
Feared he, — Philosophy's accepted guest. 

For none than he a purer heart could have. 
Or that loved good more for itself alone; 
Of nought in heaven or earth was he the 
<^aye. 



What sorrow strange, and shadowy, and 

unknown. 
Sent him, a hopeless wanderer, through 

mankind ? — 20 

If with a human sadness he did groan, 

He had a gentle yet aspiring mind; 
Just, innocent, with varied learning fed; 
And such a glorious consolation find 

In others' joy, when all their own is dead. 
He loved, and labored for his kind in grief, 
And yet, unlike all others, it is said. 

That from such toil he never found relief. 
Although a child of fortune and of power, 
Of an ancestral name the orphan chief, 30 

His soul had wedded wisdom, and her 

dower 
Is love and justice, clothed in which he sate 
Apart from men, as in a lonely tower, 

Pitying the tumult of their dark estate. 
Yet even in youth did he not e'er abuse 
The strength of wealth or thought to con- 
secrate 

Those false opinions which the harsh rich 

use 
To blind the world they famish for their 

pride; 
Nor did he hold from any man his dues. 

But, like a steward in honest dealings tried 
With those who toiled and wept, the poor 
an,d wise, 41 

His riches and his cares he did divide. 

Fearless he was, and scorning all disguise; 
What he dared do or think, though men 

might start, 
He spoke with mild yetunaverted eyes; 

Liberal he was of soul, and frank of heart. 
And to his many friends — all loved him 

well — 
Whate'er he knew or felt he would impart, 

If words he found those inmost thoughts to 

tell; 
If not, he smiled or wept; and his weak 

foes 50 

He neither spurned nor bated, though with 

fell 



426 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And mortal hate their thousand voices 

rose, — 
They passed like aimless arrows from his 

ear; 
Nor did his heart or mind its portal close 

To those, or them, or any whom life's 

sphere 
May comprehend within its wide array. 
What sadness made that vernal spirit 

sere ? — 

He knew not. Though his life, day after 

day. 
Was failing like an unreplenished stream. 
Though in his eyes a cloud and burden lay. 

Through which his soul, like Vesper's se- 
rene beam 61 
Piercing the chasms of ever rising clouds, 
Shone, softly burning; though his lips did 
seem 

Like reeds which quiver in impetuous 
floods ; 

And through his sleep, and o'er each wak- 
ing hour. 

Thoughts after thoughts, unresting multi- 
tudes, 

Were driven within him by some secret 

power. 
Which bade them blaze, and live, and roll 

afar, 
Like lights and sounds from haunted tower 

to tower 

O'er castled mountains borne, when tem- 
pest's war 70 
Is levied by the night-contending winds 
And the pale dalesmen watch with eager 
ear; — 

Though such were in his spirit, as the 

fiends 
Which wake and feed on ever living 

woe, — 
What was this grief, which ne'er in other 

minds 

A mirror found, he knew not — none could 

know; 
But on whoe'er might question him he 

turned 
The light of his frank eyes, as if to show 



He knew not of the grief within that 

burned, 
But asked forbearance with a mournful 

look; g« 

Or spoke in words from which none ever 

learned 

The cause of his disquietude; or shook 
With spasms of silent passion ; or turned 

pale: 
So that his friends soon rarely undertook 

To stir his secret pain without avail; 
For all who knew and loved him then per- 
ceived 
That there was drawn an adamantine veil 

Between his heart and mind, — both unre- 
lieved 

Wrought in his brain and bosom separate 
strife. 

Some said that he was mad; others be- 
lieved 90 

That memories of an antenatal life 

Made this, where now he dwelt, a penal 

hell; 
And others said that such mysterious grief 

From God's displeasure, like a darkness, 

fell 
On souls like his which owned no higher law 
Than love; love calm, steadfast, invincible 

By mortal fear or supernatural awe ; 

And others, — ' 'T is the shadow of a 

dream 
Which the veiled eye of memory never saw, 

* But through the soul's abyss, like some 

dark stream 100 

Through shattered mines and caverns 

underground. 
Rolls, shaking its foundations; and no 

beam 

' Of joy may rise but it is quenched and 
drowned 

In the dim whirlpools of this dream ob- 
scure ; 

Soon its exhausted waters will have found 

* A lair of rest beneath thy spirit pure, 

O Athanase ! — in one so good and great. 
Evil or tumult cannot long endure.' io8 



FRAGMENTS 



427 



So spake they — idly of another's state 
Babbling vain words and fond philosophy ; 
This was their consolation; such debate 

Men held with one another; nor did he, 
Like one who labors with a human woe, 
Decline this talk; as if its theme might be 

Another, not himself, he to and fro 
Questioned and canvassed it with subtlest 

wit. 
And none but those who loved him best 

could know 

That which he knew not, how it galled and 

bit 
His weary mind, this converse vain and 

cold; 119 

For like an eyeless nightmare grief did sit 

Upon his being; a snake which fold by fold 
Pressed out the life of life, a clinging fiend 
Which clenched him if he stirred with 

deadlier hold; — 
And so his grief remained — let it remain 

— untold. 

PART II 

Prince Athanase had one beloved friend. 
An old, old man, with hair of silver white. 
And lips where heavenly smiles would 
hang and blend 

With his wise words, and eyes whose 

arrowy light 
Shone like the reflex of a thousand minds. 
He was the last whom superstition's blight 

Had spared in Greece — the blight that 

cramps and blinds — 
And in his olive bower at CEnoe 
Had sate from earliest youth. Like one who 

finds 

A fertile island in the barren sea, 10 

One mariner who has survived his mates 
Many a drear month in a great ship — so 
he 

With soul-sustaining songs, and sweet de- 
bates 

Of ancient lore there fed his lonely being. 

*The mind becomes that which it contem- 
plates,' — 



And thus Zonoras, by forever seeing 
Their bright creations, grew like wisest 

men; 
And when he heard the crash of nations 

fleeing 

A bloodier power than ruled thy ruins then, 
O sacred Hellas ! many weary years 20 
He wandered, till the path of Laian's glen 

Was grass-grown, and the unremembered 

tears 
Were dry in Laian for their honored chief, 
Who fell in Byzant, pierced by Moslem 

spears ; 

And as the lady looked with faithful grief 
From her high lattice o'er the rugged path. 
Where she once saw that horseman toil, 
with brief, 

And blighting hope, who with the news of 
death 

Struck body and soul as with a mortal 
blight. 

She saw beneath the chestnuts, far be- 
neath, 3a 

An old man toiling up, a weary wight; 
And soon within her hospitable hall 
She saw his white hairs glittering in the 
light 

Of the wood-fire, and round his shoulders 

fall; 
And his wan visage and his withered mien 
Yet calm and gentle and majestical. 

And Athanase, her child, who must have 

been 
Then three years old, sate opposite and 

gazed 
In patient silence. 

Such was Zonoras; and as daylight finds 
One amaranth glittering on the path of 

frost, 41 

When autumn nights have nipped all 

weaker kinds, 

Thus through his age, dark, cold, and tem- 
pest-tossed, 
Shone truth upon Zonoras; and he filled 
From fountains pure, nigh evergrown and 
lost. 



428 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



The spirit of Prince Athanase, a child, 
With soul-sustaining songs of ancient lore 
And philosophic wisdom, clear and mild. 

And sweet and subtle talk they ever- 
more, 
The pupil and the master, shared; until, 50 
Sharing that undiminishable store. 

The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill 
Outrun the winds that chase them, soon 

outran 
His teacher, and did teach with native 

skill 

Strange truths and new to that experienced 
man; 

Still they were friends, as few have ever 
been 

Who mark the extremes of life's discord- 
ant span. 

So in the caverns of the forest green. 
Or by the rocks of echoing ocean hoar, 
Zonoras and Prince Athanase were seen 60 

By summer woodmen; and when winter's 

roar 
Sounded o'er earth and sea its blast of 

war, 
The Balearic fisher, driven from shore, 

Hanging upon the peaked wave afar, 
Then saw their lamp from Laian's turret 

gleam, 
Piercing the stormy darkness like a star 

Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast 

beam, 
Whilst all the constellations of the sky 
Seemed reeling through the storm. They 

did but seem — 

Fop, lo ! the wintry clouds are all gone 
by, 70 

And bright Arcturus through yon pines is 
glowing, 

And far o'er southern waves, immovably 

Belted Orion hangs — warm light is flow- 

From the young moon into the sunset's 
chasm. 

'O Summer eve with power divine, be- 
stowing 



* On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm 
Which overflows in notes of liquid glad- 
ness, 

Filling the sky like light ! How many a 
spasm 

*0f fevered brains, oppressed with grief 
and madness, 

Were lulled by thee, delightful nightin- 
gale ! 80 

And these soft waves, murmuring a gentle 
sadness, 

* And the far sighings of yon piny dale 
Made vocal by some wind we feel no^ 

here, — 
I bear alone what nothing may avail 

' To lighten — a strange load ! ' — No hu- 
man ear 

Heard this lament; but o'er the visage 
wan 

Of Athanase a ruffling atmosphere 

Of dark emotion, a swift shadow, ran, 
Like wind upon some forest-bosomed lake, 
Glassy and dark. And that divine old 
man 9a 

Beheld his mystic friend's whole being 
shake, 

Even where its inmost depths were gloom- 
iest ; 

And with a calm and measured voice he 
spake, 

And with a soft and equal pressure, 
pressed 

That cold, lean hand: — 'Dost thou re- 
member yet, 

When the curved moon, then lingering in 
the west, 

' Paused in yon waves her mighty horns to 
wet. 

How in those beams we walked, half rest- 
ing on the sea ? 

'T is just one year — sure thou dost not 
forget — 

* Then Plato's words of light in thee and 

me 100 

Lingered like moonlight in the moonless 

east; 
For we had just then read — thy memory 



FRAGMENTS 



429 



*Is faithful now — the story of the feast; 
And Agathon and Diotima seemed 
From death and dark forgetfulness re- 
leased.' 

'Twas at the season when the Earth up- 

springs 
From slumber, as a sphered angel's child, 
Shadowing its eyes with green and golden 

wings, 

Stands up before its mother bright and 

mild. 
Of whose soft voice the air expectant 

seems — no 

So stood before the sun, which shone and 

smiled 

To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams, 
The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary 

grove 
Waxed green, and flowers burst forth like 

starry beams; 

The grass in the warm sun did start and 
move. 

And sea-buds burst beneath the waves se- 
rene. 

How many a one, though none be near to 
love. 

Loves then the shade of his own soul, half 
seen 

In any mirror, or the spring's young min- 
ions, 

The winged leaves amid the copses green ! 

How many a spirit then puts on the pin- 
ions 121 
Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast, 
And his own steps, and over wide domin- 
ions 

Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far 

and fast. 
More fleet than storms — the wide world 

shrinks below. 
When winter and despondency are passed ! 

'T was at this season that Prince Athanase 
Passed the white Alps; those eagle-baffling 

mountains 
Slept in their shrouds of snow; beside the 

waye 



The waterfalls were voiceless, for their 
fountains 130 

Were changed to mines of sunless crystal 
now; 

Or, by the curdling winds, like brazen 
wings 

Which clanged along the mountain's mar- 
ble brow, 
Warped into adamantine fretwork, hung. 
And filled with frozen light the chasm be- 
low. 

Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is 

all 
We can desire, O Love ! and happy 

souls, 
Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn 

fall, 

Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflow- 

ing bowls 
Thousands who thirst for thy ambrosial 

dew ! 140 

Thou art the radiance which where ocean 

rolls 

Investest it; and when the heavens are 

blue 
Thou fillest them; and when the earth is 

fair 
The shadow of thy moving wings imbue 

Its deserts and its mountains, till they 

wear 
Beauty like some bright robe; thou ever 

soarest 
Among the towers of men, and as soft air 

In spring, which moves the unawakened 

forest. 
Clothing with leaves its branches bare and 

bleak, 
Thou floatest among men, and aye im- 

plorest 150 

That which from thee they should implore; 

the weak 
Alone kneel to thee, offering up the 

hearts 
The strong have broken; yet where shall 

any seek 

A garment whom thou clothest not ? 



430 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Her hair was brown, her sphered eyes were 

brown, 
And in their dark and liquid moisture 

swam, 
Like the dim orb of the eclipsed moon; 

Yet when the spirit flashed beneath, there 
came 

The light from them, as when tears of de- 
light 159 

Double the western planet's serene flame. 

THE WOODMAN AND THE 
NIGHTINGALE 

Date, 1818. Published in part by Mrs. Shel- 
ley, 1824, and the remainder by Garnett, 1862. 

A WOODMAN, whose rough heart was out 

01 tune 
(I think such hearts yet never came to 

good). 
Hated to hear, under the stars or moon, 

One nightingale in an interfluous wood 
Satiate the hungry dark with melody; — 
ind as a vale is watered by a flood. 

Or as the moonlight fills the open sky 
Struggling with darkness, as a tuberose 
Peoples some Indian dell with scents which 
lie 

Like clouds above the flower from which 
they rose, 10 

The singing of that happy nightingale 
In this sweet forest, from the golden close 

Of evening till the star of dawn may fail, 
Was interfused upon the silentness. 
The folded roses and the violets pale 

Heard her within their slumbers, the abyss 
Of heaven with all its planets; the dull ear 
Of the night-cradled earth ; the loneliness 

Of the circumfluous waters; every sphere 
And every flower and beam and cloud and 
wave, 20 

And every wind of the mute atmosphere, 

And every beast stretched in its rugged 

cave, 
And every bird lulled on its mossy bough, 
And every silver moth fresh from the grave 



Which is its cradle ; — ever from below 
Aspiring like one who loves too fair, too 

far, 
To be consumed within the purest glow 

Of one serene and unapproached star, 
As if it were a lamp of earthly light. 
Unconscious as some human lovers are 30 

Itself how low, how high beyond all height 
The heaven where it would perish ! — and 

every form 
That worshipped in the temple of the 

night 

Was awed into delight, and by the charm 
Girt as with an interminable zone. 
Whilst that sweet bird, whose music was a 
storm 

Of sound, shook forth the dull oblivion 
Out of their dreams; harmony became love 
In every soul but one. 

And so this man returned with axe and 
saw 40 

At evening close from killing the tall treen. 
The soul of whom by nature's gentle law 

Was each a wood-nymph, and kept ever 

green 
The pavement and the roof of the wild 

copse. 
Checkering the sunlight of the blue serene 

With jagged leaves, and from the forest 

tops 
Singing the winds to sleep, or weeping oft 
Fast showers of aerial water drops 

Into their mother's bosom, sweet and soft; 
Nature's pure tears which have no bitter- 
ness; — 50 
Around the cradles of the birds aloft 

They spread themselves into the loveliness 
Of fan-like leaves, and over pallid flow- 
ers 
Hang like moist clouds; or, where high 
branches kiss, 

Make a green space among the silent bow* 

ers, 
Like a vast fane in a metropolis, 
Surrounded by the columns and the towers 



FRAGMENTS 



431 



All overwrought with branch-like traceries 
In which there is religion — and the mute 
Persuasion of unkindled melodies, 60 

Odors and gleams and murmurs, which the 

lute 
Of the blind pilot-spirit of the blast 
Stirs as it sails, now grave and now acute. 

Wakening the leaves and waves ere it has 

passed 
To such brief unison as on the brain 
One tone, which never can recur, has cast, 

One accent never to return again. 



The world is full of Woodmen who expel 
Love's gentle Dryads from the haunt of life. 
And vex the nightingales in every dell. 70 

OTHO 

Date, 1817. Published, in part, by Mrs. 
Shelley, 1839, first edition, and the remainder 
by Garnett, 1862. Mrs. Shelley states that the 
poem was suggested by Tacitus. 



Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst 
not be. 
Last of the Romans, though thy memory 
claim 
From Brutus his own glory, and on thee 
Rests the full splendor of his sacred 
fame; 
Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant 
quail 
Amid his cowering senate with thy name, 
Though thou and he were great; it will 

avail 
To thine own fame that Otho's should not 
fail. 

II 

'T will wrong thee not — thou wouldst, if 
thou couldst feel, 
Abjure such envious fame — great Otho 
died 
Like thee — he sanctified his country's 
steel, 
At once the tyrant and tyrannicide. 
In his own blood. A deed it was to bring 
Tears from all men — though full of 
gentle pride, 



Such pride as from impetuous love may 

spring. 
That will not be refused its offering. 



Ill 



Dark is the realm of grief: but human 
things 
Those may not know who cannot weep 
for them. 



TASSO 

Date, 1818. Published by Garnett, 1862, 
and the Song by Mrs. Shelley, 1824. Shelley 
writes to Peacock regarding the drama : ' I 
have devoted this summer, and indeed the next 
year, to the composition of a tragedy on the 
subject of Tasso's madness ; which, I find upon 
inspection, is, if properly treated, admirably 
dramatic and poetical. But you will say I 
have no dramatic talent. Very true, in a cer- 
tain sense ; but I have taken the resolution to 
see what kind of tragedy a person without 
dramatic talent could write. It shall be better 
morality than Fazio, and better poetry than 
Bertram, at least.' 

Maddalo, a Courtier. Pigna, a Minister. 

Malpiglio, a Poet. Albano, an Usher. 

MADDALO 

No access to the Duke ! You have not 

said 
That the Count Maddalo would speak with 

him? 

PIGNA 

Did you inform his Grace that Signoi 

Pigna 
Waits with state papers for his signature ? 

MALPIGLIO 

The Lady Leonora cannot know 
That I have written a sonnet to her fame, 
In which I Venus and Adonis. 

You should not take my gold and serve me 
not. 

ALBANO 

In truth I told her, and she smiled and said; 
' If I am Venus, thou, coy Poesy, 
Art the Adonis whom I love, and he 
The Erymanthian boar that wounded him/ 
Oh, trust to me, Signor Malpiglio, 
Those nods and smiles were favors wortb 
the zechin. 



432 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



MALPIGLIO 

The words are twisted in some double 

sense 
That I reach not; the smiles fell not on 

me. 

PIGNA 

How are the Duke and Duchess occupied ? 

ALBANO 

Buried in some strange talk. The Duke 

was leaning, 
His finger on his brow, his lips unclosed. 
The Princess sate within the window-seat, 
And so her face was hid; but on her knee 
Her hands were clasped, veined, and pale 

as snow, 
And quivering — young Tasso, too, was 

there. 

MADDALO 

Thou seest on whom from thine own wor- 
shipped heaven 

Thou drawest down smiles — they did not 
rain on thee. 

MALPIGLIO 

Would they were parching lightnings for 

his sake 
On whom they fell ! 



SONG 



I loved — alas ! our life is love ; 

But when we cease to breathe and move 

I do suppose love ceases too. 

I thought, but not as now I do, 

Keen thoughts and bright of linked lore. 

Of all that men had thought before, 

And all that nature shows, and more. 

II 

And still I love and still I think. 
But strangely, for my heart can drink 
The dregs of such despair, and live. 
And love ; 

And if I think, my thoughts come fast, 
I mix the present with the past. 
And each seems uglier than the last. 

Ill 

Sometimes I see before me flee 
A silver spirit's form, like thee, 



O Leonora, and I sit 

still watching it. 
Till by the grated casement's ledge 
It fades, with such a sigh, as sedge 
Breathes o'er the breezy streamlet's edge. 



MARENGHI 

Date, 1818. Published in part by Mrs. Shel- 
ley, 1824, and the remainder by Rossetti, 1870. 
Mrs. Shelley gives as the source Sismondi, His- 
toire des Bepubliques Italiennes. 



Let those who pine in pride or in revenge, 
Or think that ill for ill should be repaid, 
Or barter wrong for wrong, until the ex- 
change 
Ruins the merchants of such thriftless 
trade. 
Visit the tower of Vado, and unlearn 
Such bitter faith beside Marenghi's urn. 

II 

A massy tower yet overhangs the town, 
A scattered group of ruined dwellings 
now. 



Ill 

Another scene ere wise Etruria knew 

Its second ruin through internal strife. 
And tyrants through the breach of discord 
threw 
The chain which binds and kills. As 
death to life, 
As winter to fair flowers (though some be 

poison) 
So Monarchy succeeds to Freedom's foison. 

IV 

In Pisa's church a cup of sculptured gold 
Was brimming with the blood of feuds 
forsworn 

At sacrament; more holy ne'er of old 
Etrurians mingled with the shades forlorn 

Of moon-illumined forests. 



And reconciling factions wet their lips 
With that dread wine, and swear to keep 
each spirit 
Undarkened by their country's last eclipse. 



FRAGMENTS 



43^ 



VI 

Was Florence the liberticide ? that band 
Of free and glorious brothers who had 
pli^nted, 
Like a green isle 'mid Ethiopian sand, 
A nation amid slaveries, disenchanted 
Of many impious faiths — wise, just — do 

they. 
Does Florence, gorge the sated tyrants' 



prey 



VII 



O foster-nurse of man's abandoned glor^^, 
Since Athens, its great mother, sunk in 

splendor; 
Thou shadowest forth that mighty shape in 

story. 
As ocean its wrecked fanes, severe yet 

tender. 
The light-invested angel Poesy 
Was drawn from the dim world to welcome 

thee. 

VIII 

And thou in painting didst transcribe all 

taught 
By loftiest meditations; marble knew 
The sculptor's fearless soul, and as he 

wrought, 
The grace of his own power and freedom 

grew. 
And more than all, heroic, just, sublime. 
Thou wert among the false — was this thy 

crime ? 

IX 

Yes; and on Pisa's marble walls the twine 
Of direst weeds hangs garlanded; the 
snake 
Inhabits its wrecked palaces ; — in thine 

A beast of subtler venom now doth make 
Its lair, and sits amid their glories over- 
thrown. 
And thus thy victim's fate is as thine own. 



The sweetest flowers are ever frail and rare. 
And love and freedom blossom but to 
wither; 
And good and ill like vines entangled are. 
So that their grapes may oft be plucked 
together. 
Divide the vintage ere thou drink, then 

make 
thy heart rejoice for dead Marenghi's sake. 



XI 

No record of his crime remains in story, 
But if the morning bright as evening 
shone. 
It was some high and holy deed, by glory 
Pursued into forgetfulness, which won 
From the blind crowd he made secure and 

free 
The patriot's meed, toil, death, and infamy. 

XII 

For when by sound of trumpet was declared 
A price upon his life, and there was 
set 
A penalty of blood on all who shared 
So much of water with him as might 
wet 
His lips, which speech divided not, he 

went 
Alone, as you may guess, to banishment. 

XIII 

Amid the mountains, like a hunted beast. 
He hid himself, and hunger, toil, and 
cold. 
Month after month endured; it was a feast 
Whene'er he found those globes of deep- 
red gold 
Which in the woods the strawberry-tree 

doth bear. 
Suspended in their emerald atmosphere 

XIV 

And in the roofless huts of vast morasses, 

Deserted by the fever-stricken serf. 
All overgrown with reeds and long rank 

grasses, 
And hillocks heaped of moss-inwoven 

turf, 
And where the huge and speckled aloe 

made, 
Rooted in stones, a broad and pointed 

shade, 

XV 

He housed himself. There is a point of 

strand 
Near Vado's tower and town; and on 

one side 
The treacherous marsh divides it from the 

land, 
Shadowed by pine and ilex forests wide, 
And on the other creeps eternally. 
Through muddy weeds, the shallow sullen 

sea. 



434 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



XVI 

Here the earth's breath is pestilence, and 

few 
But things whose nature is at war with 

life — 
Snakes and ill worms — endure its mortal 

dew. 
The trophies of the clime's victorious 

strife — 
White bones, and locks of dun and yellow 

hair, 
And ringed horns which buffaloes did 

wear — 



XVII 

And at the utmost point stood there 

The relics of a weed-inwoven cot. 
Thatched with broad flags. An outlawed 
murderer 
Had lived seven days there; the pursuit 
was hot 
When he was cold. The birds that were 

his grave 
Fell dead upon their feast in Vado's wave. 

XVIII 

There must have lived within Marenghi's 
heart 
That fire, more warm and bright than 
life or hope, 
(W^hich to the martyr makes his dun- 
geon . . . 
More joyous than the heaven's majestic 
cope 
To his oppressor), warring with decay, — 
Or he could ne'er have lived years, day by 
day. 

XIX 

Nor was his state so lone as you might 

think. 
He had tamed every newt and snake and 

toad. 
And every seagull which sailed down to 

drink 
Those ere the death-mist went 

abroad. 
And each one, with peculiar talk and play, 
Wiled, not untaught, his silent time away. 

XX 

A.nd the marsh-meteors, like tame beasts, 
at night 
Came licking with blue tongues his 
veined feet; 



And he would watch them, as, like spirits 
bright, 
In many entangled figures quaint and 
sweet 

To some enchanted music they would 
dance — 

Until they vanished at the first moon- 
glance. 

XXI 

He mocked the stars by grouping on each 

weed 
The summer dewdrops in the golden 

dawn ; 
And, ere the hoarfrost vanished, he could 

read 
Its pictured footprints, as on spots of lawn 
Its delicate brief touch in silence weaves 
The likeness of the wood's remembered 

leaves. 

XXII 

And many a fresh Spring morn would he 
awaken, 
While yet the unrisen sun made glow, 
like iron 

Quivering in crimson fire, the peaks un- 
shaken 
Of mountains and blue isles which did 
environ 

With air-clad crags that plain of land and 
sea, — 

And feel liberty. 

XXIII 

And in the moonless nights, when the dim 
ocean 
Heaved underneath the heaven, . . . 
Starting from dreams . . . 

Communed with the immeasurable 
world ; 
And felt his life beyond his limbs dilated. 
Till his mind grew like that it contem- 
plated. 

XXIV 

His food was the wild fig and strawberry; 
The milky pine-nuts which the autumnal 
blast 
Shakes into the tall grass ; and such small fry 
As from the sea by winter-storms are 
cast; 
And the coarse bulbs of iris flowers he 

found 
Knotted in clumps under the spongy ground. 



FRAGMENTS 



435 



XXV 

And so were kindled powers and thoughts 

which made 
His solitude less dark. When memory 

came 
(For years gone by leave each a deepening 

shade), 
His spirit basked in its internal flame, — 
As, when the black storm hurries round at 

night 
The fisher basks beside his red firelight. 

XXVI 

Yet human hopes and cares and faiths and 
errors, 
Like billows unawakened by the wind. 
Slept in Marenghi still; but that all ter- 
rors, 
Weakness, and doubt, had withered in 
his mind. 
His couch 



XXVII 

And, when he saw beneath the sunset's 
planet 
A black ship walk over the crimson 
ocean, — 

Its pennons streaming on the blasts that 
fan it, 
Its sails and ropes all tense and without 
motion, 

Like the dark ghost of the unburied even 

Striding across the orange-colored hea- 
ven, — 

XXVIII 

The thought of his own kind who made the 

soul 
Which sped that winged shape through 

night and day, — 
The thought of his own country . . . 



LINES WRITTEN FOR JULIAN 
AND MADDALO 

Published by Garnett, 1862, who conjectures 
the title. 

What think you the dead are ? 

Why, dust and clay. 
What should they be ? 

'T is the last hour of day. 



Look on the west, how beautiful it is 
Vaulted with radiant vapors ! The deep 

bliss 
Of that unutterable light has made 
The edges of that cloud fade 

Into a hue, like some harmonious thought. 
Wasting itself on that which it had 

wrought, 
Till it dies and between 

The light hues of the tender, pure, serene, 
And infinite tranquillity of heaven. 
Ay, beautiful ! but when our . , . 

Perhaps the only comfort which remains 
Is the unheeded clanking of my chains. 
The which I make, and call it melody. 

LINES WRITTEN FOR PROME- 
THEUS UNBOUND 

Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1839, first edition. 

As a violet's gentle eye 
Gazes on the azure sky, 
Until its hue grows like what it beholds; 
As a gray and empty mist 
Lies like solid amethyst 
Over the western mountain it enfolds. 
When the sunset sleeps 
Upon its snow; 
As a strain of sweetest sound 
Wraps itself the wind around. 
Until the voiceless wind be music too; 
As aught dark, vain and dull. 
Basking in what is beautiful. 
Is full of light and love. 

LINES WRITTEN FOR MONT 
BLANC 

Published by Garnett, 1862. 

There is a voice, not understood by all, 
Sent from these desert-caves. It is the roar 
Of the rent ice-cliff which the sunbeams call, 
Plunging into the vale — it is the blast 
Descending on the pines — the torrents pour. 

LINES WRITTEN FOR THE IN- 
DIAN SERENADE 

Published by Rossetti, 1870, who conjectures 
the title. 

O PILLOW cold and wet with tears ! 
Thou breathest sleep no more ! 



436 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



LINES WRITTEN FOR THE ODE 
TO LIBERTY 

Published by Garnett, 1862. 

Within a cavern of man's trackless spirit 

Is throned an Image, so intensely fair 
That the adventurous thoughts that wander 
near it 
Worship, and as they kneel tremble and 
wear 
The splendor of its presence, and the light 

Penetrates their dreamlike frame 
Till they become charged with the strength 
of flame. 



STANZA WRITTEN FOR THE 
ODE WRITTEN OCTOBER, 1819 

Published by Rossetti, The Times. 

Gather, oh, gather, 
Foeman and friend in love and peace ! 

Waves sleep together 
When the blasts that called them to 
battle cease. 
For fangless Power, grown tame and mild, 
Is at play with Freedom's fearless child — 
The dove and the serpent reconciled ! 

LINES CONNECTED WITH EPI- 
PSYCHIDION 

Published in part by Mrs. Shelley, 1839, sec- 
ond edition, and the remainder by Garnett, 1862. 
From these lines, and also from other frag- 
ments, it is to be inferred that a poem, substan- 
tially Epipsychidion, was in Shelley's mind 
before his meeting with Emilia Viviani, and 
that she was less the inspiration of it than the 
occasion of the form it took. 

Here, my dear friend, is a new book for 
you; 

I have already dedicated two 

To other friends, one female and one 
male, — 

What you are is a thing that I must veil; 

What can this be to those who praise or 
rail? 

I never was attached to that great sect 

Whose doctrine is that each one should se- 
lect 

Out of the world a mistress or a friend, 

And all the rest, though fair and wise, 
commenci g 



To cold oblivion — though 't is in the code 
Of modern morals, and the beaten road 
Which those poor slaves with weary foot- 
steps tread 
Who travel to their home among the dead 
By the broad highway of the world — and so 
With one sad friend, and many a jealous 

foe. 
The dreariest and the longest journey go. 

Free love has this, different from gold 

and clay. 
That to divide is not to take away. 
Like ocean, which the general north wind 

breaks 
Into ten thousand waves, and each one 

makes 20 

A mirror of the moon — like some great 

glass. 
Which did distort whatever form might 

pass. 
Dashed into fragments by a playful child, 
Which then reflects its eyes and forehead 

mild; 
Giving for one, which it could ne'er ex- 
press, 
A thousand images of loveliness. 

If I were one whom the loud world held 

wise, 
I should disdain to quote authorities 
In commendation of this kind of love. 
Why there is first the God in heaven 

above, 30 

Who wrote a book called Nature — 't is to 

be 
Reviewed, I hear, in the next Quarterly; 
And Socrates, the Jesus Christ of Greece, 
And Jesus Christ himself did never cease 
To urge all living things to love each 

other. 
And to forgive their mutual faults, and 

smother 
The Devil of disunion in their souls. 

I love you ! — Listen, O embodied Ray 
Of the great Brightness; I must pass away 
While you remain, and these light words 

must be 40 

Tokens by which you may remember me. 
Start not — the thing you are is unbe- 

trayed. 
If you are human, and if but the shade 
Of some sublimer Snirit. 



FRAGMENTS 



437 



And as to friend or mistress, 't is a form; 

Perhaps I wish you were one Some de- 
clare 

You a familiar spirit, as you are; 

Others with a more inhuman 

Hint that, though not my wife, you are a 
woman — 

What is the color of your eyes and hair ? 50 

Why, if you were a lady, it were fair 

The world should know — but, as I am 
afraid, 

The Quarterly would bait you if betrayed; 

And if, as it will be sport to see them 
stumble 

Over all sorts of scandals, hear them 
mumble 

Their litany of curses — some guess right, 

And others swear you 're a Hermaphro- 
dite; 

Like that sweet marble monster of both 
sexes. 

With looks so sweet and gentle that it 
vexes 

The very soul that the soul is gone 60 

Which lifted from her limbs the veil of 
stone. 



It is a sweet thing, friendship, a dear 

balm, 
A happy and auspicious bird of calm. 
Which rides o'er life's ever tumultuous 

Ocean; 
A God that broods o'er chaos in commo- 
tion; 
A flower which fresh as Lapland roses are. 
Lifts its bold head into the world's frore 

air, 
And blooms most radiantly when others 

die, 
Health, hope, and youth, and brief pros- 
perity; 69 
And with the light and odor of its bloom, 
Shining within the dungeon and the tomb; 
Whose coming is as light and music are 
'Mid dissonance and gloom — a star 
Which moves not 'mid the moving heavens 

alone — 
A smile among dark frowns — a gentle 

tone 
Among rude voices, a beloved light, 
A solitude, a refuge, a delight. 
If I had but a friend ! Why, I have 

three 
Even by my own confession; there may be 



Some more, for what I know, for 't is my 

mind 80 

To call my friends all who are wise and 

kind, — 
And these, Heaven knows, at best are very 

few; 
But none can ever be more dear than you. 
Why should they be ? My muse has lost 

her wings, 
Or like a dying swan who soars and sings, 
I should describe you in heroic style, 
But as it is, are you not void of guile ? 
A lovely soul, formed to be blessed and 

bless; 
A well of sealed and secret happiness; 
A lute which those whom Love has taught 

to play 90 

Make music on to cheer the roughest day, 
And enchant sadness till it sleeps ? 

To the oblivion whither I and thou, 
All loving and all lovely, hasten now 
With steps, ah, too unequal ! may we meet 
In one Elysium or one winding sheet ! 
If any should be curious to discover 
Whether to you I am a friend or lover. 
Let them read Shakespeare's sonnets, tak- 
ing thence 
A whetstone for their dull intelligence 100 
That tears and will not cut, or let them 

guess 
How Diotima, the wise prophetess. 
Instructed the instructor, and why he 
Rebuked the infant spirit of melody 
On Agathon's sweet lips, which as he spoke 
Was as the lovely star when morn has 

broke 
The roof of darkness, in the golden dawn, 
Half-hidden, and yet beautiful. 

I '11 pawn 
My hopes of Heaven — you know what 

they are worth — 
That the presumptuous pedagogues of 

Earth, 1 10 

If they could tell the riddle ofiPered here 
Would scorn to be, or, being, to appear 
What now they seem and are — but let 

them chide. 
They have few pleasures in the world beside ; 
Perhaps we should be dull were we not 

chidden; 
Paradise fruits are sweetest when forbidden. 
Folly can season Wisdom, Hatred Love. 



438 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Farewell, if it can be to say farewell 
To those who — 

I will not, as most dedicators do, 120 

Assure myself and all the world and you, 

That you are faultless — would to God they 
were 

Who taunt me with your love ! I then 
should wear 

These heavy chains of life with a light 
spirit, 

And would to God I were, or even as near 
it 

As you, dear heart. Alas ! what are we ? 
Clouds 

Driven by the wind in warring multi- 
tudes, 

Which rain into the bosom of the earth, 

And rise again, and in our death and birth, 

And through our restless life, take as from 
heaven 130 

Hues which are not our own, but which are 
given. 

And then withdrawn, and with inconstant 
glance 

Flash from the spirit to the countenance. 

There is a Power, a Love, a Joy, a God, 

Which makes in mortal hearts its brief 
abode, 

A Pythian exhalation, which inspires 

Love, only love — a wind which o'er the 
wires 

Of the soul's giant harp — 

There is a mood which language faints be- 
neath; 

You feel it striding, as Almighty Death 140 

His bloodless steed. 

And what is that most brief and bright de- 
light 
Which rushes through the touch and 

through the sight. 
And stands before the spirit's inmost throne, 
A naked Seraph ? None hath ever known. 
Its birth is darkness, and its growth desire ; 
Untamable and fleet and fierce as fire, 
Not to be touched but to be felt alone, 
It fills the world with glory — and is gone. 

It floats with rainbow pinions o'er the 
stream 150 

Of life, which flows, like a dream 

Into the light of morning, to the grave 
As to an ocean. 



What is that joy which serene infancy 
Perceives not, as the hours content them 

Each in a chain of blossoms, yet enjoys 
The shapes of this new world, in giant toys 
Wrought by the busy ever new ? 

Remembrance borrows Fancy's glass, to 

show 
These forms more sincere 160 

Than now they are, than then, perhaps, 

they were. 
When everything familiar seemed to be 
Wonderful, and the immortality 
Of this great world, which all things must 

inherit, 
Was felt as one with the awakening spirit, 
Unconscious of itself, and of the strange 
Distinctions which in its proceeding change 
It feels and knows, and mourns as if each 

were 
A desolation. 

Were it not a sweet refuge, Emily, 17a 

For all those exiles from the dull insane 
Who vex this pleasant world with pride 

and pain. 
For all that band of sister-spirits known 
To one another by a voiceless tone ? 



LINES WRITTEN FOR ADONAIS 

Published by Garnett, 1862, who furnishes the 
following note : ' Sevei-al cancelled passages of 
the Adonais have been met with in Shelley's 
notebooks. He appears to have originally 
framed his conception on a larger scale than he 
eventually found practicable. The passage in 
which the contemporary raiinstrels are intro- 
duced, as mourning for Adonais, would have 
been considerably extended, and the character- 
istics of each delineated at some length. It 
must, however, have occurred to him that the 
parenthesis would be too long, and would tend 
to distract the reader's attention from the main 
subject. Nothing, therefore, of the original 
draft was allowed to subsist but the four in- 
comparable stanzas descriptive of himself. A 
fifth was cancelled, which ran as follows [first 
fragment]. Several stanzas relating to Byron 
and Moore are too imperfect for publication. 
The following refers to the latter [second frag- 
ment]. Leigh Hunt was thus described [third 
fragment]. The following lines were also 
written for the Adonais [remaining frag- 
ments].' Forman conjectures that Coleridge 
is described in the last fragment. 



FRAGMENTS 



439 



And ever as he went he swept a lyre 
Of unaccustomed shape, and strings 

Now like the of impetuous fire, 

Which shakes the forest with its mur- 

murings, 
Now like the rush of the aerial wings 
Of the enamoured wind among the treen. 
Whispering unimaginable things. 
And dying on the streams of dew serene. 
Which feed the unmown meads with ever- 

during green. 

And the green Paradise which western 

waves 
Embosom in their ever wailing sweep, 
Talking of freedom to their tongueless 

caves, 
Or to the spirits which within them 

keep 
A record of the wrongs which, though 

they sleep, 
Die not, but dream of retribution, heard 
His hymns, and echoing them from steep 

to steep, 
Kept — 

And then came one of sweet and earnest 

looks. 
Whose soft smiles to his dark and night- 
like eyes 
Were as the clear and ever living brooks 
Are to the obscure fountains whence they 

rise, 
Showing how pure they are: a Paradise 
Of happy truth upon his forehead low 
Lay, making wisdom lovely, in the guise 
Of earth-awakening morn upon the brow 
Of star-deserted heaven, while ocean 
gleams below. 

His song, though very sweet, was low and 

faint, 
A simple strain — 

A mighty Phantasm, half concealed 
In darkness of his own exceeding light, 
Which clothed his awful presence unre- 

vealed, 
Charioted on the night 

Of thunder-smoke, whose skirts were chrys- 
olite. 

And like a sudden meteor, which outstrips 
The splendor- winged chariot of the sun, 

eclipse 



The armies of the golden stars, each one 
Pavilioned in its tent of light — all strewn 
Over the chasms of blue night — 



LINES WRITTEN FOR HELLAS 

Published by Garnett, 1862, who conjectures 
the title. 



Fairest of the Destinies, 
Disarray thy dazzling eyes: 
Keener far thy lightnings are 

Than the winged [bolts] thou bear- 
est, 

And the smile thou wearest 
Wraps thee as a star 

Is wrapped in light. 

II 

Could Arethuse to her forsaken urn 
From Alpheus and the bitter Doris run, 
Or could the morning shafts of purest 
light 
Again into the quivers of the Sun 

Be gathered — could one thought froua 
its wild flight 
Return into the temple of the brain 

Without a change, without a stain, -^- 
Could aught that is, ever again 
Be what it once has ceased to be, 
Greece might again be free ! 

Ill 

A star has fallen upon the earth 

'Mid the benighted nations, 

A quenchless atom of immortal light, 
A living spark of Night, 

A cresset shaken from the constellations, 
Swifter than the thunder fell 
To the heart of Earth, the well 
Where its pulses flow and beat. 
And unextinct in that cold source 
Burns, and on course 

Guides the sphere which is its prison, 
Like an angelic spirit pent 
In a form of mortal birth, 
Till, as a spirit half arisen 
Shatters its charnel, it has rent, 
In the rapture of its mirth. 

The thin and painted garment of the 
Earth, 
Ruining its chaos — a fierce breath 

Consuming all its forms of living death. 



44© 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



THE PINE FOREST OF THE 
CASCINE NEAR PISA 

FIRST DRAFT OF ' TO JANE : THE INVI- 
TATION, THE RECOLLECTION ' 

Date 1821. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824. 

Dearest, best and brightest, 

Come away, 
To the woods and to the fields ! 
Dearer than this fairest day 
Which, like thee to those in sorrow, 
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 
To the rough Year just awake 
In its cradle in the brake. 

The eldest of the hours of Spring, 

Into the winter wandering, lo 

Looks upon the leafless wood; 

And the banks all bare and rude 

Found, it seems, this halcyon Morn 

In February's bosom born. 

Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth. 

Kissed the cold forehead of the Earth, 

And smiled upon the silent sea. 

And bade the frozen streams be free; 

And waked to music all the fountains. 

And breathed upon the rigid mountains, 20 

And made the wintry world appear 

Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 

Radiant Sister of the Day, 

Awake ! arise ! and come away ! 

To the wild woods and the plains. 

To the pools where winter rains 

Image all the roof of leaves, 

Where the pine its garland weaves 

Sapless, gray, and ivy dun 

Round stems that never kiss the sun — 30 

To the sandhills of the sea. 

Where the earliest violets be. 

Now the last day of many days. 

All beautiful and bright as thou. 

The loveliest and the last, is dead. 

Rise, Memory, and write its praise ! 

And do thy wonted work and trace 

The epitaph of glory fled; 

For now the Earth has changed its face, 

A frown is on the Heaven's brow. 40 

We wandered to the Pine Forest 
That skirts the Ocean's foam. 

The lightest wind was in its nest, 
The tempest in its home, 



The whispering waves were half asleep, 
The clouds were gone to play. 

And on the woods, and on the deep, 
The smile of Heaven lay. 

It seemed as if the day were one 

Sent from beyond the skies, 50 

Which shed to earth above the sun 
A light of Paradise. 

We paused amid the pines that stood 

The giants of the waste. 
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude 

With stems like serpents interlaced 

How calm it was — the silence there 

By such a chain was bound 
That even the busj' woodpecker 

Made stiller by her sound 60 

The inviolable quietness; 

The breath of peace we drew 
With its soft motion made not less 

The calm that round us grew. 

It seemed that from the remotest seat 
Of the white mountain's waste. 

To the bright flower beneath our feet, 
A magic circle traced; — 

A spirit interfused around, 

A thinking silent life, 7c 

To momentary peace it bound 

Our mortal nature's strife; — 

And still it seemed the centre of 

The magic circle there. 
Was one whose being filled with love 

The breathless atmosphere. 

Were not the crocuses that grew 

Under that ilex-tree 
As beautiful in scent and hue 

As ever fed the bee ? So 

We stood beside the pools that lie 

Under the forest bough. 
And each seemed like a sky 

Gulfed in a world below; 

A purple firmament of light. 

Which in the dark earth lay. 

More boundless than the depth of night, 
And clearer than the day — 



FRAGMENTS 



441 



In which the massy forests grew 

As in the upper air, 90 

More perfect both in shape and hue 
Than any waving there. 

Like one beloved the scene had lent 

To the dark water's breast 
Its every leaf and lineament 

With that clear truth expressed; 

There lay far glades and neighboring lawn, 
And through the dark green crowd 

The white sun twinkling like the dawn 

Under a speckled cloud. 100 

Sweet views, which in our world above 

Can never well be seen. 
Were imaged by the water's love 

Of that fair forest green. 

And all was interfused beneath 

Within an Elysium air 
An atmosphere without a breath, 

A silence sleeping there. 

Until a wandering wind crept by, 

Like an unwelcome thought, no 

Which from my mind's too faithful eye 
Blots thy bright image out. 

For thou art good and dear and kind, 

The forest ever green, 
But less of peace in S 's mind, 

Than calm in waters seen. 



ORPHEUS 

Date, 1820. Published by Garnett, 1862, and 
revised and enlarged by Rossetti, 1870. Gar- 
nett adds the following note : ' No trace of 
this poem appears in Shelley's notebooks ; it 
exists only in a transcript by Mrs. Shelley, who 
has written, in playful allusion to her toils as 
an amanuensis, " Aspettofin che il diluvio cala, ed 
allora cerco di posare argine alle sue paroled ' ' I 
await the descent of the flood, and then I en- 
deavor to embank the words." From this cir- 
cumstance, as well as from the internal evi- 
dence of. the piece, I should conjecture that it 
was an attempt at improvisation. Shelley had 
several times heard Sgricci, the renowned im- 
provvisatore, in the winter of 1820, and this may 
have inspired him with the idea of attempting 
a similar feat. Assuredly this poem, though 
containing many felicitous passages, hardly at- 
tains his usual standard, either of thought or 



expression. It may be a translation from the 
Italian.' 



Not far from hence. From yonder pointed 

hill, 
Crowned with a ring of oaks, you may be- 
hold 
A dark and barren field, through which 

there flows. 
Sluggish and black, a deep but narrow 

stream. 
Which the wind ripples not, and the fair 

moon 
Gazes in vain, and finds no mirror there. 
Follow the herbless banks of that strange 

brook 
Until you pause beside a darksome pond. 
The fountain of this rivulet, whose gush 
Cannot be seen, hid by a rayless night 10 
That lives beneath the overhanging rock 
That shades the pool — an endless spring 

of gloom. 
Upon whose edge hovers the tender light. 
Trembling to mingle with its paramour, — 
But, as Syrinx fled Pan, so night flies day, 
Or, with most sullen and regardless hate, 
Refuses stern her heaven-born embrace. 
On one side of this jagged and shapeless 

hill 
There is a cave, from which there eddies up 
A pale mist, like aerial gossamer, 20 

Whose breath destroys all life; awhile it 

veils 
The rock ; then, scattered by the wind, ii 

flies 
Along the stream, or lingers on the clefts. 
Killing the sleepy worms, if aught bide 

there. 
Upon the beetling edge of that dark rock 
There stands a group of cypresses; not such 
As, with a graceful spire and stirring life. 
Pierce the pure heaven of your native vale, 
Whose branches the air plays among, but 

not 29 

Disturbs, fearing to spoil their solemn grace; 
But blasted and all wearily they stand, 
One to another clinging; their weak boughs 
Sigh as the wind buffets them, and they 

shake 
Beneath its blasts — a weather-beaten crew! 

CHORUS 

What wondrous sound is that, mournful 
and faint, 



442 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



But more melodious than the murmuring 

wind 
Which through the columns of a temple 

glides ? 

A 
It is the wandering voice of Orpheus' lyre, 
Borne by the winds, who sigh that their 

rude king 
Hurries them fast from these air-feeding 

notes; 40 

But in their speed they bear along with 

them 
The waning sound, scattering it like dew 
Upon the startled sense. 

CHORUS 

Does he still sing ? 
Methought he rashly cast away his harp 
When he had lost Eurydice. 

A 

Ah no ! 
Awhile he paused. — As a poor hunted 

stag 
A moment shudders on the fearful brink 
Of a swift stream — the cruel hounds press 

on 
With deafening yell, the arrows glance and 

wound, — 
He plunges in: so Orpheus, seized and 

torn 50 

By the sharp fangs of an insatiate grief. 
Maenad-like waved his lyre in the bright 

air, 
And wildly shrieked, * Where she is, it is 

dark ! ' 
And then he struck from forth the strings 

a sound 
Of deep and fearful melody. Alas ! 
In times long past, when fair Eurydice 
With her bright eyes sat listening by his 

side. 
He gently sang of high and heavenly 

themes. 
As in a brook, fretted with little waves, 
By the light airs of spring, each riplet 

makes 60 

A many-sided mirror for the sun. 
While it flows musically through green 

banks. 
Ceaseless and pauseless, ever clear and 

fresh, 
So flowed his song, reflecting the deep joy 
And tender love that fed those sweetest 

notes, 



The heavenly offspring of ambrosial food. 
But that is past. Returning from drear 

Hell, 
He chose a lonely seat of unhewn stone, 
Blackened with lichens, on a herbless plain. 
Then from the deep and overflowing spring 
Of his eternal, ever-moving grief 71 

There rose to Heaven a sound of angry 

song. 
'T is as a mighty cataract that parts 
Two sister rocks with waters swift and 

strong, 
And casts itself with horrid roar and din 
Adown a steep; from a perennial source 
It ever flows and falls, and breaks the air 
With loud and fierce, but most harmonious 

roar, 
And as it falls casts up a vaporous spray 79 
Which the sun clothes in hues of Iris light. 
Thus the tempestuous torrent of his grief 
Is clothed in sweetest sounds and varying 

words 
Of poesy. Unlike all human works 
It never slackens, and through every 

change 
Wisdom and beauty and the power divine 
Of mighty poesy together dwell, 
Mingling in sweet accord. As I have seen 
A fierce south blast tear through the dark- 
ened sky. 
Driving along a rack of winged clouds, 89 
Which may not pause, but ever hurry on. 
As their wild shepherd wills them, while 

the stars. 
Twinkling and dim, peep from between the 

plumes. 
Anon the sky is cleared, and the high dome 
Of serene Heaven, starred with fiery flow- 
ers. 
Shuts in the shaken earth; or the still 

moon 
Swiftly, yet gracefully, begins her walk. 
Rising all bright behind the eastern hills. 
I talk of moon, and wind, and stars, and 

not 
Of song; but, would I echo his high song. 
Nature must lend me words ne'er used be- 
fore, 100 
Or I must borrow from her perfect works, 
To picture forth his perfect attributes. 
He does no longer sit upon his throne 
Of rock upon a desert herbless plain. 
For the evergreen and knotted ilexes, 
And cypresses that seldom wave their 
boughs. 



FRAGMENTS 



443 



And sea-green olives with their grateful 
fruit, 

And elms dragging along the twisted vines, 

Which drop their berries as they follow 
fast. 

And blackthorn bushes with their infant 
race no 

Of blushing rose blooms; beeches, to lovers 
dear. 

And weeping willow trees; all swift or slow. 

As their huge boughs or lighter dress per- 
mit. 

Have circled in his throne; and Earth her- 
self 

Has sent from her maternal breast a growth 

Of starlike flowers and herbs of odors 
sweet. 

To pave the temple that his poesy 

Has framed, while near his feet grim lions 
couch. 

And kids, fearless from love, creep near 
his lair. 

Even the blind worms seem to feel the 
sound. I20 

The birds are silent, hanging down their 
heads, 

Perched on the lowest branches of the 
trees; 

Not even the nightingale intrudes a note 

In rivalry, but all entranced she listens. 

FIORDISPINA 

Date, 1820. Published in part by Mrs. 
Shelley, 1824, and the remainder by Garnett, 
1862, who adds a note : ' Fiordispina and the 
piece which I have ventured to entitle To His 
Genius (using the latter word in the sense of 
Zalfxuv) may be regarded as preliminary, 
though unconscious studies, for this crowning 
work [Epipsychidion], This is indicated by 
the general similarity among the three, as 
well as by the fact that very many lines now 
found in Epipsychidion have been transferred 
to it from the others. Most of these have been 
omitted from the poem as now published ; but 
some instances will be observed in the second, 
which was probably the earlier in point of date- 
Fiordispina seems to have been written during 
the first days of Shelley's acquaintance with 
Emilia Viviani, who is also the Ginevra of the 
poem thus entitled.' 

The season was the childhood of sweet 

June, 
Whose sunny hours from morning until 

noon 



Went creeping through the day with silent 
feet, 

Each with its load of pleasure, slow yet 
sweet; 

Like the long years of blest Eternity 

Never to be developed. Joy to thee, 

Fiordispina, and thy Cosimo, 

For thou the wonders of the depth canst 
know 

Of this unfathomable flood of hours, 

Sparkling beneath the heaven which em- 
bowers - — lO 

They were two cousins, almost like two 

twins. 
Except that from the catalogue of sins 
Nature had rased their love — which could 

not be 
But by dissevering their nativity. 
And so they grew together like two flowers 
Upon one stem, which the same beams and 

showers 
Lull or awaken in their purple prime. 
Which the same hand will gather, the same 

clime 
Shake with decay. This fair day smiles to 

see 
All those who love — and who e'er loved 

like thee, 20 

Fiordispina ? Scarcely Cosimo, 
Within whose bosom and whose brain now 

glow 
The ardors of a vision which obscure 
The very idol of its portraiture. 
He faints, dissolved into a sea of love; 
But thou art as a planet sphered above ; 
But thou art Love itself — ruling the 

motion 
Of his subjected spirit; such emotion 
Must end in sin or sorrow, if sweet May 
Had not brought forth this morn, your wed- 
ding-day. 30 

' Lie there ; sleep awhile in your own dew, 
Ye faint-eyed children of the Hours,' 

Fiordispina said, and threw the flowers 
Which she had from the breathing — 

A table near of polished porphyry. 

They seemed to wear a beauty from the 

eye 
That looked on them, a fragrance from the 

touch 
Whose warmth checked their life; a 

light such 



444 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



As sleepers wear, lulled by the voice they 
love, 

which did reprove 40 

The childish pity that she felt for them, 
And a remorse that from their stem 

She had divided such fair shapes made 

A feeling in the which was a shade 

Of gentle beauty on the flowers; there lay 
All gems that make the earth's dark bosom 

gay- 
rods of myrtle-buds and lemon-blooms, 
And that leaf tinted lightly which assumes 
The livery of unremembered snow — 
Violets whose eyes have drunk — 50 

Fiordispina and her nurse are now 
Upon the steps of the high portico; 
Under the withered arm of Media 
She flings her glowing arm 

step by step and stair by stair, 
That withered woman, gray and white and 

brown — 
More like a trunk by lichens overgrown 
Than anything which once could have been 

human. 
And ever as she goes the palsied woman 

* How slow and painfully you seem to 

walk, 60 

Poor Media ! you tire yourself with talk.' 

* And well it may, 
Fiordispina, dearest — well-a-day ! 
You are hastening to a marriage-bed; 
I to the grave ! ' — * And if my love were 

dead, 
Unless my heart deceives me, I would lie 
Beside him in my shroud as willingly 
As now in the gay night-dress Lilla 

wrought.' 

* Fie, child ! Let that unseasonable thought 
Not be remembered till it snows in June; 70 
Such fancies are a music out of tune 
With the sweet dance your heart must keep 

to-night. 

What ! would you take all beauty and de- 
light 

Back to the Paradise from which you 
sprung. 

And leave to grosser mortals ? — 

And say, sweet lamb, would you not learn 
the sweet 

And subtle mystery by which spirits meet ? 

Who knows whether the loving game is 
played, 



When, once of mortal [venture] disarrayed, 
The naked soul goes wandering here and 
there 80 

Through the wide deserts of Elysian air ? 
The violet dies not till it ' — 



THE BIRTH OF PLEASURE 

Date, 1819. Published by Garnett, 1862. 

At the creation of the Earth 
Pleasure, that divinest birth, 
From the soil of Heaven did rise. 
Wrapped in sweet wild melodies — 
Like an exhalation wreathing 
To the sound of air low-breathing 
Through ^olian pines, which make 
A shade and shelter to the lake 
Whence it rises soft and slow; 
Her life-breathing [limbs] did flow 
In the harmony divine 
Of an ever-lengthening line 
Which enwrapped her perfect form 
With a beauty clear and warm. 



LOVE, HOPE, DESIRE, AND FEAR 
Date, 1821. Published by Garnett, 1862. 

And many there were hurt by that strong 
boy; 
His name, they said, was Pleasure. 
And near him stood, glorious beyond mea- 
sure, 
Four Ladies who possess all empery 

In earth and air and sea; 
Nothing that lives from their award is 
free. 
Their names will I declare to thee, — 
Love, Hope, Desire, and Fear; 
And they the regents are 
Of the four elements that frame the 
heart, — 10 

And each diversely exercised her art 

By force or circumstance or sleight 
To prove her dreadful might 
Upon that poor domain. 
Desire presented her [false] glass, and then 

The spirit dwelling there 
Was spellbound to embrace what seemed 
so fair 

Within that magic mirror; 
And, dazed by that bright error, 



FRAGMENTS 



4^5 



It would have scorned the [shafts] of the 
avenger, 20 

And death, and penitence, and danger, 
Had not then silent Fear 
Touched with her palsying spear, — 
So that, as if a frozen torrent, 
The blood was curdled in its current; 
It dared not speak, even in look or motion, 
But chained within itself its proud devo- 
tion. 
Between Desire and Fear thou wert 
A wretched thing, poor Heart ! 
Sad was his life who bore thee in his breast. 
Wild bird for that weak nest. 3 1 

Till Love even from fierce Desire it bought, 
And from the very wound of tender thought 
Drew solace, and the pity of sweet eyes 
Gave strength to bear those gentle agonies, 
Surmount the loss, the terror, and the 
sorrow. 
Then Hope approached, she who can 

borrow 
For poor to-day from rich to-morrow; 
And Fear withdrew, as night when day 
Descends upon the orient ray; 40 

And after long and vain endurance 
The poor heart woke to her assurance. 



At one birth these four were born 
With the world's forgotten morn, 
And from Pleasure still they hold 
All it circles, as of old. 
When, as summer lures the swallow. 
Pleasure lures the heart to follow — 
O weak heart of little wit — 
The fair hand that wounded it. 
Seeking, like a panting hare, 
Refuge in the lynx's lair, — 
Love, Desire, Hope, and Fear, 
Ever will be near. 



so 



A SATIRE ON SATIRE 

Date, 1820. Published by Dowden, Corre- 
spondence of Robert Southey and Caroline 
Bowles, 1880. Shelley writes to Hunt : ' I 
began once a satire on satire, which I meant 
to be very severe ; it was full of small knives, 
in the use of which practice would have soon 
made me very expert.' 

If gibbets, axes, confiscations, chains, 
And racks of subtle torture, if the pains 
Of shame, of fiery Hell's tempestuous wave, 
Seen through the caverns of the shadowy 
grave, 



Hurling the damned into the murky air 
While the meek blest sit smiling; if Despair 
And Hate, the rapid bloodhounds with 

which Terror 
Hunts through the world the homeless 

steps of Error, 
Are the true secrets of the commonweal 
To make men wise and just; ... 10 

And not the sophisms of revenge and fear, 
Bloodier than is revenge . . . 
Then send the priests to every hearth and 

home 
To preach the burning wrath which is to 

come. 
In words like flakes of sulphur, such as 

thaw 
The frozen tears ... 
If Satire's scourge could wake the slum-" 

bering hounds 
Of Conscience, or erase the deeper wounds, 
The leprous scars of callous infamy; 
If it could make the present not to be, 20 
Or charm the dark past never to have been, 
Or turn regret to hope; who that has seen 
What Southey is and was, would not ex- 
claim, 
Lash on ! be the keen verse dipped 

in flame; 
Follow his flight with winged words, and 

urge 
The strokes of the inexorable scourge 
Until the heart be naked, till his soul 
See the contagion's spots foul; 

And from the mirror of Truth's sunlike 

shield, 
From which his Parthian arrow ... 30 
Flash on his sight the spectres of the past. 
Until his mind's eye paint thereon — 
Let scorn like yawn below, 

And rain on him like flakes of fiery snow. 
This cannot be, it ought not, evil still — 
Suffering makes suffering, ill must follow 

ill. 
Rough words beget sad thoughts, and, 

beside, 
Men take a sullen and a stiipid pride 
In being all they hate in others' shame. 
By a perverse antipathy of fame. 40 

'T is not worth while to prove, as I could^ 

how 
From the sweet fountains of our Nature 

flow 
These bitter waters; I will only say. 
If any friend would take Southey^ soipe 

day. 



446 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And tell hira, in a country walk alone, 
Softening harsh words with friendship's 

gentle tone, 
How incorrect his public conduct is, 
And what men think of it, 't were not 

amiss. 
Far better than to make innocent ink — 

GINEVRA 

Date, 1821. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 
1824, who gives the source of the story as 
L' Osservatore Fiorentino. 

Wild, pale, and wonder-stricken, even 
as one 
Who staggers forth into the air and sun 
From the dark chamber of a mortal fever. 
Bewildered, and incapable, and ever 
Fancying strange comments in her dizzy 

brain 
Of usual shapes, till the familiar train 
Of objects and of persons passed like things 
Strange as a dreamer's mad imaginings, 
Ginevra from the nuptial altar went; 
The vows to which her lips had sworn as- 
sent lO 
Rung in her brain still with a jarring din. 
Deafening the lost intelligence within. 

And so she moved under the bridal veil. 
Which made the paleness of her cheek 

more pale. 
And deepened the faint crimson of her 

mouth, 
And darkened her dark locks, as moonlight 

doth, — 
And of the gold and jewels glittering there 
She scarce felt conscious, but the weary 

glare 
Lay like a chaos of unwelcome light. 
Vexing the sense with gorgeous undelight. 
A moonbeam in the shadow of a cloud 21 
Was less heavenly fair — her face was 

bowed. 
And as she passed, the diamonds in her hair 
Were mirrored in the polished marble stair 
Which led from the cathedral to the street; 
And even as she went her light fair feet 
Erased these images. 

The bride-maidens who round her 
thronging came. 
Some with a sense of self-rebuke and 
shame. 



Envying the unenviable; and others 30 

Making the joy which should have been 

another's 
Their own by gentle sympathy; and some 
Sighing to think of a unhappy home; 
Some few admiring what can ever lure 
Maidens to leave the heaven serene and 

pure 
Of parents' smiles for life's great cheat; a 

thing 
Bitter to taste, sweet in imagining. 

But they are all dispersed — and lo ! she 

stands 
Looking in idle grief on her white hands. 
Alone within the garden now her own; 40 
And through the sunny air, with jangling 

tone. 
The music of the merry marriage-bells, 
Killing the azure silence, sinks and 

swells; — 
Absorbed like one within a dream who 

dreams 
That he is dreaming, until slumber seems 
A mockery of itself — when suddenly 
Antonio stood before her, pale as she. 
With agony, with sorrow, and with pride, 
He lifted his wan eyes upon the bride, 
And said — ' Is this thy faith ? ' and then 

as one 50 

Whose sleeping face is stricken by the 

sun 
With light like a harsh voice, which bids 

him rise 
And look upon his day of life with eyes 
Which weep in vain that they can dream 

no more, 
Ginevra saw her lover, and forbore 
To shriek or faint, and checked the stifling 

blood 
Rushing upon her heart, and unsubdued 
Said — ' Friend, if earthly violence or ill, 
Suspicion, doubt, or the tyrannic will 
Of parents, chance, or custom, time, or 

change, 60 

Or circumstance, or terror, or revenge. 
Or wildered looks, or words, or evil speech, 
With all their stings and venom, can im- 
peach 
Our love, — we love not. If the grave, 

which hides 
The victim from the tyrant, and divides 
The cheek that whitens from the eyes that 

dart 
Imperious inquisition to the heart 



FRAGMENTS 



447 



That is another's, could dissever ours, 
We love not.' — ' What ! do not the silent 

hours 
Beckon thee to Gherardi's bridal bed ? 70 
Is not that ring ' — a pledge, he would have 

said, 
Of broken vows, but she with patient look 
The golden circle from her finger took, 
And said — ' Accept this token of my faith. 
The pledge of vows to be absolved by 

death ; 
And I am dead or shall be soon — my 

knell 
Will mix its music with that merry bell; 
Does it not sound as if they sweetly said, 
" We toll a corpse out of the marriage- 
bed"? 
The flowers upon my bridal chamber 
strewn 80 

Will serve unfaded for my bier — so soon 
That even the dying violet will not die 
Before Ginevra.' The strong fantasy 
Had made her accents weaker and more 

weak, 
And quenched the crimson life upon her 

cheek, 
And glazed her eyes, and spread an atmo- 
sphere 
Round her, which chilled the burning noon 

with fear, 
Making her but an image of the thought. 
Which, like a prophet or a shadow, brought 
News of the terrors of the coming time. 90 
Like an accuser branded with the crime 
He would have cast on a beloved friend. 
Whose dying eyes reproach not to the end 
The pale betrayer — he then with vain re- 
pentance 
Would share, he cannot now avert, the 

sentence — 
Antonio stood and would have spoken, 

when 
The compound voice of women and of 

men 
Was heard approaching; he retired, while 

she 
Was led amid the admiring company 
Back to the palace, — and her maidens 
soon 100 

Changed her attire for the afternoon, 
And left her at her own request to keep 
An hour of quiet and rest. Like one 

asleep 
With open eyes and folded hands she lay, 
Pale in the light of the declining day. 



Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is 
set. 
And in the lighted hall the guests are met; 
The beautiful looked lovelier in the light 
Of love, and admiration, and delight. 
Reflected from a thousand hearts and 
eyes no 

Kindling a momentary Paradise. 
This crowd is safer than the silent wood. 
Where love's own doubts disturb the soli- 
tude; 
On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine 
Falls, and the dew of music more divine 
Tempers the deep emotions of the time 
To spirits cradled in a sunny clime. 
How many meet, who never yet have 

met. 
To part too soon, but never to forget ? 
How many saw the beauty, power, and 
wit 120 

Of looks and words which ne'er enchanted 

But life's familiar veil was now withdrawn. 
As the world leaps before an earthquake's 

dawn, 
And unprophetic of the coming hours 
The matin winds from the expanded flow- 
ers 
Scatter their hoarded incense, and awaken 
The earth, until the dewy sleep is shaken 
From every living heart which it possesses, 
Through seas and winds, cities and wilder- 
nesses, 
As if the future and the past were all 130 
Treasured i' the instant; so Gherardi's hall 
Laughed in the mirth of its lord's festi- 
val, — 
Till some one asked, ' Where is the Bride ? ' 

And then 
A bridesmaid went, and ere she came again 
A silence fell upon the guests — a pause 
Of expectation, as when beauty awes 
All hearts with its approach, though unbe- 

held; 
Then wonder, and then fear that wonder 

quelled ; — 
For whispers passed from mouth to ear 

which drew 
The color from the hearer's cheeks, and 
flew 140 

Louder and swifter round the company; 
And then Gherardi entered with an eye 
Of ostentatious trouble, and a crowd 
Surrounded him, and some were weeping 
loud. 



448 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



They found Ginevra dead ! if it be death 
To lie without motion, or pulse, or breath, 
With waxen cheeks, and limbs cold, stiff, 

and white. 
And open eyes, whose fixed and glassy 

light 
Mocked at the speculation they had owned; 
If it be death, when there is felt around 150 
A smell of clay, a pale and icy glare, 
And silence, and a sense that lifts the hair 
From the scalp to the ankles, as it were 
Corruption from the spirit passing forth, 
And giving all it shrouded to the earth, 
And leaving as swift lightning in its flight 
Ashes, and smoke, and darkness: in our 

night 
Of thought we know thus much of death, 

— no more 
Than the unborn dream of our life before 
Their barks are wrecked on its inhospitable 

shore. 160 

The marriage feast and its solemnity 
Was turned to funeral pomp ; the company, 
With heavy hearts and looks, broke up; 

nor they 
Who loved the dead went weeping on their 

way 
Alone, but sorrow mixed with sad surprise 
Loosened the strings of pity in all eyes, 
On which that form, whose fate they weep 

in vain, 
Will never, thought they, kindle smiles 

again. 
The lamps which, half-extinguished in their 

haste 
Gleamed few and faint o'er the abandoned 

feast, 170 

Showed as it were within the vaulted room 
A cloud of sorrow hanging, as if gloom 
Had passed out of men's minds into the 

air. 
Some few yet stood around Gherardi there. 
Friends and relations of the dead, — and 

he, 
A loveless man, accepted torpidly 
The consolation that he wanted not; 
Awe in the place of grief within him 

wrought. 
Their whispers made the solemn silence 

seem 
More still — some wept, 180 

Some melted into tears without a sob. 
And some with hearts that might be heard 

to throb 



Leaned on the table, and at intervals 
Shuddered to hear through the deserted 

halls 
And corridors the thrilling shrieks which 

came 
Upon the breeze of night, that shook the 

flame 
Of every torch and taper, as it swept 
From out the chamber where the women 

kept; — 
Their tears fell on the dear companion 

cold 
Of pleasures now departed; then was 

knolled 190 

The bell of death, and soon the priests ar- 
rived. 
And finding death their penitent had 

shrived. 
Returned like ravens from a corpse whereon 
A vulture has just feasted to the bone. 
And then the mourning-women came. — 



THE DIRGE 

Old winter was gone 
In his weakness back to the mountains 
hoar. 

And the spring came down 
From the planet that hovers upon the shore 
Where the sea of sunlight encroaches 200 
On the limits of wintry night; — 
If the land, and the air, and the sea. 

Rejoice not when spring approaches, 
We did not rejoice in thee, 
Ginevra ! 

She is still, she is cold 

On the bridal couch. 
One step to the white death-bed. 

And one to the bier. 
And one to the charnel — and one, oh 
where ? 210 

The dark arrow fled 

In the noon. 

Ere the sun through heaven once more has 
rolled, 

The rats in her heart 
Will have made their nest, 

And the worms be alive in her golden hair; 

While the spirit that guides the sun 

Sits throned in his flaming chair, 
She shall sleep. 



FRAGMENTS 



449 



THE BOAT ON THE SERCHIO 

Date, 1821. Published in part by Mrs. 
Shelley, 1824, and the remainder by Rossetti, 
1870. Medwin furnishes the note : ' I have 
heard Shelley often speak with rapture of the 
excursions they [Shelley and Williams] made 
together. The canal fed by the Serchio, of the 
clearest water, is so rapid that they were 
obliged to tow the boat up against the current ; 
bvit the swift descent, through green banks 
enamelled with flowers and overhung with 
trees that mirrored themselves on its glassy 
surface, gave him a wonderful delight. He 
has left a record of these trips in a poem en- 
titled The Boat on the Serchio, and calls Wil- 
liams and himself Melchior and Lionel.'' 

Our boat is asleep on Serchio's stream, 
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a 

dream, 
The helm sways idly, hither and thither; 
Dominic, the boatman, has brought the 

mast. 
And the oars, and the sails; but 'tis 
sleeping fast 
Like a beast, unconscious of its tether. 

The stars burned out in the pale blue air. 
And the thin white moon lay withering 

there ; 
To tower, and cavern, and rift, and tree. 
The owl and the bat fled drowsily. lo 

Day had kindled the dewy woods. 

And the rocks above and the stream be- 
low, 
And the vapors in their multitudes. 

And the Apennine's shroud of summer 
snow. 
And clothed with light of aery gold 
The mists in their eastern caves uprolled. 

Day had awakened all things that be, — 
The lark and the thrush and the swallow 
free. 
And the milkmaid's song and mower's 
scythe, 19 

And the matin-bell and the mountain bee. 
Fire-flies were quenched on the dewy corn ; 
Glow-worms went out on the river's 

brim. 
Like lamps which a student forgets to 
trim ; 
The beetle forgot to wind his horn; 

The crickets were still in the meadow 
and hill; 



Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun. 
Night's dreams and terrors, every one, 
Fled from the brains which are their prey 
From the lamp's death to the morning ray. 

All rose to do the task He set to each, 30 
Who shaped us to his ends and not our 
own; 
The million rose to learn, and one to teach 
What none yet ever knew or can be 
known. 
And many rose 
Whose woe was such that fear became 
desire ; 
Melchior and Lionel were not among those ; 
They from the throng of men had stepped 

aside, 
And made their home under the green 

hillside. 
It was that hill, whose intervening brow 
Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious 
eye, 40 

Which the circumfluous plain waving be- 
low. 
Like a wide lake of green fertility, 
With streams and fields and marshes bare, 
Divides from the far Apennines, which 
lie 
Islanded in the immeasurable air. 

* What think you, as she lies in her green 

cove, 
Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of ? 
If morning dreams are true, why 1 should 

guess 
That she was dreaming of our idleness. 
And of the miles of watery way 50 

We should have led her by this time of 

day.' 

* Never mind,' said Lionel, 

* Give care to the winds, they can bear it 

well 
About yon poplar tops; and see ! 
The white clouds are driving merrily. 
And the stars we miss this morn will light 
More willingly our return to-night. 
How it whistles, " Dominic's long black 

hair ! 
List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair; 
Hear how it sings into the air." 6a 

— of us and of our lazy motions,' 
Impatiently said Melchior, 

* If I can guess a boat's emotions; 

And how we ought, two hours before, 
To have been the devil knows where.' 



45° 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And then, in such transalpine Tuscan 
As would have killed a Della-Cruscan, 

So, Lionel according to his art 

Weaving his idle words, Melchior said: 
' She dreams that we are not yet out of 
bed ; 70 

We '11 put a soul into her, and a heart 
Which like a dove chased by a dove shall 
beat.' 



* Ay, heave the ballast overboard, 
And stow the eatables in the aft locker.' 

' Would not this keg be best a little low- 
ered ? ' 

* No, now all 's right.' ' Those bottles of 
warm tea — 

(Give me some straw) — must be stowed 
tenderly ; 

Such as we used, in summer after six. 

To cram in great-coat pockets, and to 
mix 

Hard eggs and radishes and rolls at Eton, 80 

And, couched on stolen hay in those green 
harbors 

Farmers called gaps, and we schoolboys 
called arbors. 

Would feast till eight.' 



With a bottle in one hand, 
As if his very soul were at a stand, 
Lionel stood, when Melchior brought him 

steady, — 
* Sit at the helm — fasten this sheet — all 

ready ! ' 

The chain is loosed, the sails are spread, 

The living breath is fresh behind. 
As with dews and sunrise fed 90 

Comes the laughing morning wind. 
The sails are full, the boat makes head 
Against the Serchio's torrent fierce. 
Then flags with intermitting course. 
And hangs upon the wave, and stems 
The tempest of the 
Which fervid from its mountain source 
Shallow, smooth, and strong, doth come, — 
Swift as fire, tempestuously 
It sweeps into the affrighted sea; 100 

In morning's smile its eddies coil, 
Its billows sparkle, toss, and boil. 
Torturing all its quiet light 
Into columns fierce and bright. 



The Serchio, twisting forth 
Between the marble barriers which it clove 
At Ripafratta, leads through the dread 
chasm 
The wave that died the death which lovers 
love. 
Living in what it sought; as if this spasm 
Had not yet passed, the toppling mountains 
cling, no 

But the clear stream in full enthusiasm 
Pours itself on the plain, then wandering, 
Down one clear path of effluence crystal- 
line 
Sends its superfluous waves, that they may 
fling 
At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine ; 
Then, through the pestilential deserts wild 
Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted 
pine. 
It rushes to the Ocean. 

THE ZUCCA 

Date, January, 1822. Published by Mrs. 

Shelley, 1824. 

I 
Summer was dead and Autumn was expir- 
ing, 
And infant Winter laughed upon the land 
All cloudlessly and cold; when I, desiring 
More in this world than any understand. 
Wept o'er the beauty, which, like sea re- 
tiring. 
Had left the earth bare as the wave-worn 
sand 
Of my lorn heart, and o'er the grass and 

flowers 
Pale for the falsehood of the flattering hours. 

II 

Summer was dead, but I yet lived to weep 
The instability of all but weeping; 

And on the earth lulled in her winter sleep 
I woke, and envied her as she was sleep- 
ing. 

Too happy Earth ! over thy face shall creep 
The wakening vernal airs, until thou, 
leaping 

From unremembered dreams shalt see 

No death divide thy immortality. 

Ill 

I loved — oh, no, I mean not one of ye. 
Or any earthly one, though ye are dear 



FRAGMENTS 



45 ^ 



As human heart to human heart may be; 
1 loved I know not what — but this low 
sphere, 
And all that it contains, contains not thee, 
Thou, whom, seen nowhere, I feel every- 
where. 
From heaven and earth, and all that in 

them are 
Veiled art thou like a star. 

IV 

By Heaven and Earth, from all whose 
shapes thou flowest, 
Neither to be contained, delayed, nor 
hidden; 
Making divine the loftiest and the lowest. 
When for a moment thou art not for- 
bidden 
To live within the life which thou bestow- 
est; 
And leaving noblest things vacant and 
chidden. 
Cold as a corpse after the spirit's flight. 
Blank as the sun after the birth of nis:ht. 



In winds, and trees, and streams, and all 
things common. 
In music, and the sweet unconscious 
tone 
Of animals, and voices which are human. 
Meant to express some feelings of their 
own; 
In the soft motions and rare smile of wo- 
man. 
In flowers and leaves, and in the grass 
fresh shown 
Or dying in the autumn, — I the most 
Adore thee present, or lament thee lost. 

VI 

And thus I went lamenting, when I saw 

A plant upon the river's margin lie. 
Like one who loved beyond his nature's 
law. 
And in despair had cast him down to 
die; 
Its leaves which had outlived the frost, the 
thaw 
Had blighted, like a heart which hatred's 
eye 
Can blast not, but which pity kills; the 

dew 
Lay on its spotted leaves like tears too 
true. 



VII 



The Heavens had wept upon it, but the 
Earth 
Had crushed it on her unmaternal breast 



VIII 

I bore it to my chamber and I planted 

It in a vase full of the lightest mould; 
The winter beams which out of Heaven 
slanted 
Fell through the window panes, disrobed 
of cold. 
Upon its leaves and flowers; the star which 
panted 
In evening for the Day, whose car has 
rolled 
Over the horizon's wave, with looks of light 
Smiled on it from the threshold of the 
night. 

IX 

The mitigated influences of air 

And light revived the plant, and from it 
grew 
Strong leaves and tendrils, and its flowers 
fair, 
Full as a cup with the vine's burning dew, 
O'erflowed with golden colors; an atmo- 
sphere 
Of vital warmth enfolded it anew, 
And every impulse sent to every part 
The unbeheld pulsations of its heart. 

X 

Well might the plant grow beautiful and 
strong, 
Even if the air and sun had smiled not 
on it; 
For one wept o'er it all the winter long 
Tears pure as Heaven's rain, which fell 
upon it 
Hour after hour; for sounds of softest 
song, 
Mixed with the stringed melodies that 
won it 
To leave the gentle lips on which it slept, 
Had loosed the heart of him who sat and 
wept. 

XI 

Had loosed his heart, and shook the leaves 
and flowers 
On which he wept, the while the savage 
storm 



452 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Waked by the darkest of December's hours 
Was raviug round the chamber hushed 
and warm; 
The birds were shivering in their leafless 
bowers, 
The fish were frozen in the pools, the 
form 
Of every summer plant was dead 
Whilst this 

LINES 

Date, 1822. Published by Gamett, 1862. 

I 

We meet not as we parted. 

We feel more than all may see; 

My bosom is heavy-hearted, 
And thine full of doubt for me. 
One moment has bound the free. 

II 

That moment is gone forever. 

Like lightning that flashed and died, 

Like a snowflake upon the river. 
Like a sunbeam upon the tide. 
Which the dark shadows hide. 

Ill 

That moment from time was singled 
As the first of a life of pain ; 

The cup of its joy was mingled — 
Delusion too sweet though vain ! 
Too sweet to be mine again. 

IV 

Sweet lips, could my heart have hidden 
That its life was crushed by you. 

Ye would not have then forbidden 
The death which a heart so true 
Sought in your briny dew. 



Methinks too little cost 

For a moment so found, so lost ! 

CHARLES THE FIRST 

Shelley had the subject of Charles the First 
in mind for a tragedy as early as 1818, and de- 
sired Mrs. Shelley to attempt it. He had be- 
gun to think of it for himself in the summer of 
1820 and wrote to Medwin : ' What think you 
of my boldness ? I mean to write a play, in 
tha spirit of human nature, without prejudice 



or passion, entitled Charles the First. So van- 
ity intoxicates people ; but let those few who 
praise my verses, and in whose approbation I 
take so much delight, answer for the sin.' 

Later, he wrote to Oilier : ' I doubt about 
Charles the First ; but, if I do write it, it shall 
be the birth of severe and high feelings. You 
are very welcome to it, on the terras you men- 
tion, and, when once I see and feel that I can 
write it, it is already written. My thoughts 
aspire to a production of a far higher char- 
acter ; but the execution of it will require 
some years. I write what I write chiefly to 
enquire, by the reception which my writings 
meet with, how far I am fit for so great a task, 
or not.' 

By the summer of 1821 he had done some 
shaping-out thought on it, and in September 
wrote again to Oilier : ' Charles the First is 
conceived, but not born. Unless I am sure of 
making something good, the play will not 
be written. Pride, that ruined Satan, will kill 
Charles the First, for his midwife would be 
only less than him whom thunder has made 
greater. I am full of great plans ; and if I 
should tell you them, I should add to the list 
of these riddles.' 

He began seriously upon it about January 1 , 
1822, and wrote to Oilier it would be ready by 
spring, saying that it ' promises to be good, as 
tragedies go,' and that it ' is not colored by 
the party-spirit of the author ; ' to Hunt he 
confided his hope that it would ' hold a higher 
rank than The Cenci as a work of art.' He 
apparently soon discontinued the work, and in 
answer to Hunt wrote, in March : ' So you 
think I can make nothing of Charles the First. 
Tanto pegqio. Indeed, I have written nothing 
for this last two months : a slight circumstance 
gave a new train to my ideas, and shattered 
the fragile edifice when half built. What 
motives have I to write ? I had motives, and 
I thank the God of my own heart they were 
totally different from those of the other apes of 
humanity who make mouths in the glass of the 
time. But what are those motives now ? The 
only inspiration of an ordinary kind I could de- 
scend to acknowledge would be the earning 
£100 for you ; and that it seems I cannot.' In 
the same strain he wrote in April to Gisborne : 
' I have done some of Charles the First ; but al- 
though the poetry succeeded very well, I can- 
not seize on the conception of the subject as a 
whole, and seldom now touch the canvas ; ' and 
again, in June : ' I write little now. It is im- 
possible to compose except under the strong 
excitement of an assurance of finding sympathy 
in what you write. Imagine Demosthenes re- 
citing a Philippic to the waves of the Atlantic. 
Lord Byron is in this respect fortunate. He 
touched the chord to which a million hearts 



FRAGMENTS 



453 



responded, and the coarse music which he pro- 
duced to please them, disciplined him to the 
perfection to which he now approaches. I do 
not go on with Charles the First. I feel too 
little certainty of the future, and too little 
satisfaction with regard to the past to under- 
take any subject seriously and deeply. I 
stand, as it were, upon a precipice, which I 
have ascended with g-reat, and cannot descend 
without greater peril, and I am content if the 
heaven above me is calm for the passing- mo- 
ment.' 

Medwin adds some details : ' I must now 
speak of his Charles the First. He had de- 
signed to write a tragedy on this ungrateful 
subject as far back as 1818, and had begun it 
at the end of the following year, when he 
asked me to obtain for him that well-known 
pamphlet, which was in my father's library — 
Killing no Murder. He was, however, in lim- 
ine, diverted at that time to more attractive 
subjects, and now resumed his abandoned 
labors, of which he has left a very unsatisfac- 
tory, though valuable, hozzo. The task seemed 
to him an irksome one. His progress was 
slow ; one day he expunged what he had 
written the day before. He occasionally 
showed and read to me his MS., which was 
lined and interlined and interworded, so as to 
render it almost illegible. The scenes were 
disconnected, and intended to be interwoven 
in the tissue of the drama. He did not thus 
compose The Cenci. He seemed tangled in an 
inextricable web of difficulties, as to the treat- 
ment of his subject ; and it was clear that he 
had formed no definite plan in his own mind, 
how to connect the links of the complicated 
yarn of events that led to that frightful catas- 
trophe, or to justify it. . . . Shelley meant to 
have made the last of King's fools, Archy, a 
more than subordinate among his dramatis 
per some, as Calderon had done in his Cisma 
de VInglaterra, a fool sui generis, who talks in 
fable, " weaving a world of mirth out of the 
wreck of all around." . . . Other causes, be- 
sides doubt as to the manner of treating the 
subject, operated to impede its progress. The 
ever-growing fastidiousness of his taste had, I 
have often thought, begun to cramp his genius. 
The opinion of the world, too, at times shook 
his confidence in himself. I have often been 
shown the scenes of this tragedy in which he 
was engaged ; like the MSS. of Tasso's Geru- 
salemme Liberata, in the library at Ferrara, his 
were larded with word on word, till they were 
scarcely decipherable.' 

Mrs. Shelley writes : ' Whether the subject 
proved more difficult than he anticipated, or 
whether in fact he could not bend his mind 
away from the broodings and wanderings of 
thought divested from human interest, which 



he best loved, I cannot tell ; but he proceeded 
slowly, and threw it aside for one of the most 
mystical of his poems. The Triumph of Life, on 
which he was employed at the last.' 

The fragment was published in part by Mrs. 
Shelley, 1824, and the remainder by Rossetti, 
1870. 

CHARLES THE FIRST 

DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Kdio Charles I. Juxon. 

Queen Henrietta. St. John. 

Laud, Archbishop of Canter- Archy, the Court Fool. 

bury. Hampden. 

Wentworth, Earl of Straf- Pym. 

ford. Cromwell. 

Lord Cottington. Cromwell's Daughter. 

Lord Weston. Sir Harry Vane the 

Lord Coventry. younger. 

Williams, Bishop of Lincoln. Leighton. 
Secretary Lyttelton. Bastwick. 

Prynne. 

Gentlemen of the Inns of Court, Citizens, Pursui- 
vants, Marshalsmen, Law Students, Judges, Clerk. 

Scene I. — The Masque of the Inns of Court. 

A PURSUIVANT 

Place for the Marshal of the Masque ! 

FIRST CITIZEN 

What thinkest thou of this quaint masque 

which turns, 
Like morning from the shadow of the 

night, 
The night to day, and London to a place 
Of peace and joy ? 

SECOND CITIZEN 

And Hell to Heaven. 
Eight years are gone, 
And they seem hours, since in this populou.' 

street 
I trod on grass made green by summer's 

rain; 
For the red plague kept state within that 

palace 
Where now that vanity reigns. In nine 

years more lo 

The roots will be refreshed with civil 

blood ; 
And thank the mercy of insulted Heaven 
That sin and wrongs wound, as an orphan's 

cry. 
The patience of the great Avenger's ear. 

A YOUTH 

Yet, father, 't is a happy sight to see, 
Beautiful, innocent, and unforbidden 



454 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



By God or man. 'T is like the bright pro- 
cession 
Of skyey visions in a solemn dream 
From which men wake as from a paradise, 
And draw new strength to tread the thorns 
of life. 20 

If God be good, wherefore should this be 

evil? 
And if this be not evil, dost thou not draw 
Unseasonable poison from the flowers 
Which bloom so rarely in this barren 

world ? 
Oh, kill these bitter thoughts which make 

the present 
Dark as the future ! — 

When Avarice and Tyranny, vigilant Fear 
And open-eyed Conspiracy, lie sleeping 
As on Hell's threshold; and all gentle 

thoughts 
Waken to worship Him who giveth joys 30 
With his own gift. 

SECOND CITIZEN 

How young art thou in this old age of 

time ! 
How green in this gray world ! Canst thou 

discern 
The signs of seasons, yet perceive no hint 
Of change in that stage-scene in which 

thou art 
Not a spectator but an actor ? or 
Art thou a puppet moved by [enginery ?] 
The day that dawns in fire will die in 

storms, 
Even though the noon be calm. My 

travel 's done, — 
Before the whirlwind wakes I shall have 

found 40 

My inn of lasting rest; but thou must 

still 
Be journeying on in this inclement air. 
Wrap thy old cloak about thy back; 
Nor leave the broad and plain and beaten 

road. 
Although no flowers smile on the trodden 

dust, 
For the violet paths of pleasure. This 

Charles the First 
Rose like the equinoctial sun, . . . 
By vapors, through whose threatening omi- 
nous veil 
Darting his altered influence he has gained 
This height of noon — from which he must 

decline 50 



Amid the darkness of conflicting storms, 
To dank extinction and to latest night . . . 

There goes 

The apostate Strafford ; he whose titles . . . 

whispered aphorisms 

From Machiavel and Bacon; and, if Judas 

Had been as brazen and as bold as he . . . 



FIRST CITIZEN 



Is the Archbishop. 



That 



SECOND CITIZEN 



Rather say the Pope: 
London will be soon his Rome. He walks 
As if he trod upon the heads of men, 6i 
He looks elate, drunken with blood and 

gold. 
Beside him moves the Babylonian woman 
Invisibly, and with her as with his shadow, 
Mitred adulterer ! he is joined in sin. 
Which turns Heaven's milk of mercy to 

revenge. 

THIRD CITIZEN {lifting up his eyes) 
Good Lord ! rain it down upon him ! . . . 
Amid her ladies walks the papist queen. 
As if her nice feet scorned our English 

earth. 
The Canaanitish Jezebel ! I would be 70 
A dog if I might tear her with my teeth ! 
There 's old Sir Henry Vane, the Earl of 

Pembroke, 
Lord Essex, and Lord Keeper Coventry, 
And others who made base their English 

breed 
By vile participation of their honors 
With papists, atheists, tyrants, and apos- 
tates. 
When lawyers masque 't is time for honest 

men 
To strip the vizor from their purposes. 
A seasonable time for masquers this ! 
When Englishmen and Protestants should 

sit 80 

dust on their dishonored heads. 
To avert the wrath of Him whose scourge 

is felt 
For the great sins which have drawn down 

from Heaven 

and foreign overthrow. 
The remnant of the martyred saints in 

Rochefort 
Have been abandoned by their faithless 

allies 



FRAGMENTS 



455 



To that idolatrous and adulterous torturer 
Lewis of France, — the Palatinate is 
lost. . . . 

Enter LeighIton (who has been branded in the 
face) and Bastwick 

Canst thou be — art thou . . . ? 

LEIGHTON 

I ivas Leighton: what 
I am thou seest. And yet turn thine eyes, 
And with thy memory look on thy friend's 

mind, 91 

Which is unchanged, and where is written 

deep 
The sentence of my judge. 

THIRD CITIZEN 

Are these the marks with which 
Laud thinks to improve the image of his 

Maker 
Stamped on the face of man ? Curses 

upon him. 
The impious tyrant ! 

SECOND CITIZEN 

It is said besides 

That lewd and papist drunkards may pro- 
fane 

The Sabbath with their 

And has permitted that most heathenish 
custom 

Of dancing round a pole dressed up with 
wreaths 100 

On May-day. 

A man who thus twice crucifies his God 

May well his brother. Li my mind, 

friend, 

The root of all this ill is prelacy. 

I would cut up the root. 

THIRD CITIZEN 

And by what means ? 

SECOND CITIZEN 

Smiting each Bishop under the fifth rib. 

THIRD CITIZEN 

You seem to know the vulnerable place 
Of these same crocodiles. 

SECOND CITIZEN 

1 learned it in 
Egyptian bondages, sir. Your worm of 
Nile 



Betrays not with its flattering tears like 

they; no 

For, when they cannot kill, they whine and 

weep. 
Nor is it half so greedy of men's bodies 
As they of soul and all ; nor does it wallow 
Li slime as they in simony and lies 
And close lusts of the flesh. 

A MARSHALSMAN 

Give place, give place ? 
You torch-bearers, advance to the great 

gate. 
And then attend the Marshal of the Masque 
Into the royal presence. 

A LAW STUDENT 

What thinkest thou 
Of this quaint show of ours, my ag^d 

friend ? 
Even now we see the redness of the torches 
Inflame the night to the eastward, and the 

clarions 121 

[Gasp ?] to us on the wind's wave. It 

comes ! 
And their sounds, floating hither round the 

pageant, 
Rouse up the astonished air. 

FIRST CITIZEN 

I will not think but that our country's 

wounds 
May yet be healed. The king is just and 

gracious, 
Though wicked counsels now pervert his 

will. 
These once cast ofip — 

SECOND CITIZEN 

As adders cast their skins 
And keep their venom, so kings often 

change ; 
Counsels and counsellors hang on on 

another, 130 

Hiding the loathsome . . . 
Like the base patchwork of a leper's rags. 

THE YOUTH 

Oh, still those dissonant thoughts ! — List 

how the music 
Grows on the enchanted air ! And see, the 

torches 
Restlessly flashing, and the crowd divided 
Like waves before an admiral's prow ! 



45^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



A MABSHALSMAN^ 



To the Marshal of the Masque 



Give place 



A PURSUIVANT 

Room for the Kmg ! 

THE YOUTH 

How glorious ! See those thronging char- 
iots 
Rolling, like painted clouds before the wind, 
Behind their solemn steeds: how some are 
shaped 140 

Like curved sea-shells dyed by the azure 

depths 
Of Indian seas; some like the new-born 

moon; 
And some like cars in which the Romans 

climbed 
(Canopied by Victory's eagle-wings out- 
spread) 
The Capitolian ! See how gloriously 
The mettled horses in the torchlight stir 
Their gallant riders, while they check their 

pride, 
Like shapes of some diviner element 
Than English air, and beings nobler than 
The envious and admiring multitude. 150 

SECOND CITIZEN 

Ay, there they are — 
Nobles, and sons of nobles, patentees. 
Monopolists, and stewards of this poor 

farm, 
On whose lean sheep sit the prophetic 

crows. 
Here is the pomp that strips the houseless 

orphan. 
Here is the pride that breaks the desolate 

heart. 
These are the lilies glorious as Solomon, 
Who toil not, neither do they spin — unless 
It be the webs they catch poor rogues 

withal. 
Here is the surfeit which to them who 

earn 160 

The niggard wages of the earth scarce 

leaves 
The tithe that will support them till they 

crawl 
Back to her cold, hard bosom. Here is 

health 
Followed by grim disease, glory by shame. 
Waste by lame famine, wealth by squalid 

want, 



And England's sin by England's punish- 
ment. 

And, as the effect pursues the cause fore- 
gone, 

Lo, giving substance to my words, behold 

At once the sign and the thing signified — 

A troop of cripples, beggars, and lean out- 
casts, 170 

Horsed upon stumbling jades, carted with 
dung, 

Dragged for a day from cellars and low 
cabins 

And rotten hiding-holes, to point the moral 

Of this presentment, and bring up the rear 

Of painted pomp with misery ! 

THE YOUTH 

'T is but 
The anti-masque, and serves as discords do 
In sweetest music. Who would love May 

flowers 
If they succeeded not to Winter's flaw; 
Or day unchanged by night; or joy itself 
Without the touch of sorrow ? 

SECOND CITIZEN 

I and thou . . , 



181 



A MARSHALSMAN 

Place, give place ! 

Scene II. — A Chamber in Whitehall. 

Enter the King, Queen, Laud, Lord 
Strafford, Lord Cottington, and other 
Lords ; Archy ; also St. John, with some 
Gentlemen of the Inns of Court. 

KING 

Thanks, gentlemen. I heartily accept 
This token of your service; your gay 

masque 
Was performed gallantly. And it show? 

well 
When subjects twine such flowers of [ob- 
servance ?] 
With the sharp thorns that deck the Eng- 
lish crown. 
A gentle heart enjoys what it confers. 
Even as it suffers that which it inflicts. 
Though Justice guides the stroke. 
Accept my hearty thanks. 

queen 

And, gentlemen. 

Call your poor Queen your debtor. Your 

quaint pageant 10 



FRAGMENTS 



457 



Rose on me like the figures of past years, 
Treading their still path back to infancy, 
More beautiful and mild as they draw 

nearer 
The quiet cradle. I could have almost wept 
To think I was in Paris, where these shows 
Are well devised — such as I was ere yet 
My young heart shared a portion of the 

burden, 
The careful weight, of this great monarchy. 
There, gentlemen, between the sovereign's 

pleasure 
And that which it regards, no clamor lifts 
Its proud interposition. 21 

In Paris ribald censurers dare not move 
Their poisonous tongues against these sin- 
less sports; 
And his smile 
Warms those who bask in it, as ours would 

do 
If . . . Take my heart's thanks; add them, 

gentlemen, 
To those good words which, were he King 

of France, 
My royal lord would turn to golden deeds. 

ST. JOHN 

Madam, the love of Englishmen can make 
The lightest favor of their lawful king 30 
Outweigh a despot's. We humbly take our 

leaves. 
Enriched by smiles which France can never 

buy. 

[Exeunt St. John and the Gentlemen of the 
Inns of Court. 

KING 

My Lord Archbishop. 

Mark you what spirit sits in St. John's 

eyes? 
Methinks it is too saucy for this presence. 

ARCHY 

Yes, pray your Grace look : for, like an 
unsophisticated [eye] sees everything upside 
down, 5'ou who are wise will discern the 
shadow of an idiot in lawn sleeves and a 
rochet setting springes to catch woodcocks 
in haymaking time. Poor Archy, whose 
owl-eyes are tempered to the error of his 
age, and because he is a fool, and by spe- 
cial ordinance of God forbidden ever to see 
himself as he is, sees now in that deep eye 
a blindfold devil sitting on the ball, and 
weighing words out between king and sub- 



jects. One scale is full of promises, and 
the other full of protestations; and then 
another devil creeps behind the first out 
of the dark windings [of a] pregnant law- 
yer's brain, and takes the bandage from 
the other's eyes, and throws a sword into 
the left-hand scale, for all the world lik"" 
my Lord Essex's there. 

STRAFFORD 

A rod in pickle for the Fool's back ! 

ARCHY 

Ay, and some are now smiling whose 
tears will make the brine ; for Fool sees . . . 

STRAFFORD 

Insolent ! You shall have your coat 
turned and be whipped out of the palace 
for this. 

ARCHY 

When all the fools are whipped, and all 
the protestant writers, while the knaves 
are whipping the fools ever since a thief 
was set to catch a thief. If all turncoats 
were whipped out of palaces, poor Archy 
would be disgraced in good company. Let 
the knaves whip the fools, and all the fools 
laugh at it. [Let the] wise and godly slit 
each other's noses and ears (having no need 
of any sense of discernment in their craft) ; 
and the knaves, to marshal them, join in a 
procession to Bedlam, to entreat the mad- 
men to omit their sublime Platonic contem- 
plations, and manage the state of England. 
Let all the honest men who lie penned up 
at the prisons or the pillories, in custody 
of the pursuivants of the High-Commission 
Court, marshal them. 

Enter Secretary Lyttelton, with papers 

KING (looking over the papers) 

These stiff Scots 80 
His Grace of Canterbury must take order 
To force under the Church's yoke. — You, 

Went worth. 
Shall be myself in Ireland, and shall add 
Your wisdom, gentleness, and energy. 
To what in me were wanting. — My Lord 

Weston, 
Look that those merchants draw not with- 
out loss 
Their bullion from the Tower; and, on the 
payment 



458 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Of ship-money, take fullest compensation 
For violation of our royal forests, 
Whose limits, from neglect, have been o'er- 
grown 90 

With cottages and cornfields. The utter- 
most 
Farthing exact from those who claim ex- 
emption 
From knighthood; that which once was a 

reward 
Shall thus be made a punishment, that sub- 
jects 
May know how majesty can wear at will 
The rugged mood. — My Lord of Coven- 
try, 
Lay my command upon the Courts below 
That bail be not accepted for the prisoners 
Under the warrant of the Star Chamber. 
The people shall not find the stubbornness 
Of Parliament a cheap or easy method loi 
Of dealing with their rightful sovereign; 
And doubt not this, my Lord of Coventry, 
We will find time and place for fit re- 
buke. — 
My Lord of Canterbury. 



ARCHY 



The fool is here. 



LAUD 

I crave permission of your Majesty 
To order that this insolent fellow be 
Chastised ; he mocks the sacxed character. 
Scoffs at the state, and — 

KING 

What, my Archy ? 
He mocks and mimics all he sees and hears. 
Yet with a quaint and graceful license. 

Prithee m 

For this once do not as Prynne would, were 

he 
Primate of England. With your Grace's 

leave. 
He lives in his own world; and, like a 

parrot 
Hung in his gilded prison from the win- 
dow 
Of a queen's bower over the public way, 
Blasphemes with a bird's mind; his words, 

like arrows 
Which know no aim beyond the archer's 

wit, 
Strike sometimes what eludes philosophy. 

(To Archt) 



Go, sirrah, and repent of your offence 120 

Ten minutes in the rain; be it your pen- 
ance 

To bring news how the world goes there. — 
Poor Archy ! 

[Exit Archy. 

He weaves about himself a world of mirth 

Out of the wreck of ours. 

LAUD 

I take with patience, as my Master did, 
All scoffs permitted from above. 



Pray 



KING 



these 



My lord, 
papers. Archy 's 



overlook 
words 
Had wings, but these have talons. 

QUEEN 

And the lion 
That wears them must be tamed. My 

dearest lord, 129 

I see the new-born courage in thine eye 
Armed to strike dead the spirit of the time. 
Which spurs to rage the many-headed 

beast. 
Do thou persist; for, faint but in resolve, 
And it were better thou hadst still re- 
mained 
The slave of thine own slaves, who tear 

like curs 
The fugitive, and flee from the pursuer; 
And Opportunity, that empty wolf, 
Flies at his throat who falls. Subdue thy 

actions 
Even to the disposition of thy purpose, 139 
And be that tempered as the Ebro's steel; 
And banish weak-eyed Mercy to the weak, 
Whence she will greet thee with a gift of 

peace, 
And not betray thee with a traitor's kiss, 
As when she keeps the company of rebels. 
Who think that she is Fear. This do, lest 

we 
Should fall as from a glorious pinnacle 
In a bright dream, and wake, as from a 

dream, 
Out of our worshipped state. 

KING 

BelovM friend, 
G^d is my witness that this weight of 

power, 
Which he sets me my earthly task to wield 



FRAGMENTS 



459 



Under his law, is my delight and pride 151 
Only because thou lovest that and me. 
For a king bears the office of a God 
To all the under world ; and to his God 
Alone he must deliver up his trust, 
Unshorn of its permitted attributes. 
[It seems] now as the baser elements 
Had mutinied against the golden sun 
That kindles them to harmony, and quells 
Their self-destroying rapine. The wild 

million 160 

Strike at the eye that guides them; like as 

humors 
Of the distempered body that conspire 
Against the spirit of life throned in the 

heart, — 
And thus become the prey of one another, 
And last of death. . . . 

STRAFFORD 

That which would be ambition in a subject 
Is duty in a sovereign ; for on him, 
As on a keystone, hangs the arch of life. 
Whose safety is its strength. Degree and 

form, 
And all that makes the age of reasoning 

man 170 

More memorable than a beast's, depend on 

this — ■ 
That Right should fence itself inviolably 
With power; in which respect the state of 

England 
From usurpation by the insolent commons 
Cries for reform. 
Get treason, and spare treasure. Fee with 

coin 
The loudest murmurers; feed with jealous- 
ies 
Opposing factions, — be thyself of none ; 
And borrow gold of many, for those who 

lend 
Will serve thee till thou payest them ; and 

thus 180 

Keep the fierce spirit of the hour at bay. 
Till time, and its coming generations 
Of nights and days unborn, bring some one 

chance, 

Or war or pestilence or Nature's self, 
By some distemperature or terrible sign, 
Be as an arbiter betwixt themselves. 

Nor let your Majesty 
Doubt here the peril of the unseen event. 
How did your brother kings, coheritors 
In vour high interest in the subject earth, 



Rise past such troubles to that height of 

power 191 

Where now they sit, and awfully serene 
Smile on the trembling world ? Such 

popular storms 
Philip the Second of Spain, this Lewis of 

France, 
And late the German head of many bodies. 
And every petty lord of Italy, 
Quelled or by arts or arms. Is England 

poorer 
Or feebler ? or art thou who wield'st her 

power 
Tamer than they ? or shall this island be — 
[Girdled] by its inviolable waters — 200 
To the world present and the world to come 
Sole pattern of extinguished monarchy ? 
Not if thou dost as I would have thee do. 

KING 

Your words shall be my deeds; 

You speak the image of my thought. My 

friend 
(If kings can have a friend, I call thee 

so). 
Beyond the large commission which [be- 
longs ?] 
Under the great seal of the realm, take 

this: 
And, for some obvious reasons, let there be 
No seal on it, except my kingly word 210 
And honor as I am a gentleman. 
Be — as thou art within my heart and 

mind — 
Another self, here and in Ireland: 
Do what thou judgest well, take amplest 

license, 
And stick not even at questionable means. 
Hear me, Wentworth. My wcrd is as a 

wall 
Between thee and this world thine enemy — 
That hates thee, for thou lovest me. 

STRAFFORD 

I own 

No friend but thee, no enemies but thine; 
Thy lightest thought is my eternal law. 220 
How weak, how short, is life to pay — 

KING 

Peace, peace ! 
Thou ow'st me nothing yet. — 

{To Laud) 
My lord, what say 
Those papers ? 



460 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



LAUD 

Your Majesty has ever interposed, 
In lenity towards your native soil, 
Between the heavy vengeance of the 

Church 
And Scotland. Mark the consequence of 

warming 
This brood of northern vipers in your 

bosom. 
The rabble, instructed no doubt 
By Loudon, Lindsay, Hume, and false 

Argyll, 230 

(For the waves never menace heaven until 
Scourged by the wind's invisible tyranny) 
Have in the very temple of the Lord 
Done outrage to his chosen ministers. 
They scorn the liturgy of the Holy Church, 
Refuse to obey her canons, and deny 
The apostolic power with which the Spirit 
Has filled its elect vessels, even from him 
Who held the keys with power to loose 

and bind 
To him who now pleads in this royal pre- 
sence. — 240 
Let ampler powers and new instructions be 
Sent to the High Commissioners in Scot- 
land. 
To death, imprisonment, and confiscation. 
Add torture, add the ruin of the kindred 
Of the offender, add the brand of infamy. 
Add mutilation: and if this suffice not. 
Unleash the sword and fire, that in their 

thirst 
They may lick up that scum of schismatics. 
I laugh at those weak rebels who, desiring 
What we possess, still prate of Christian 

peace; 250 

As if those dreadful arbitrating messengers 
Which play the part of God 'twixt right 

and wrong. 
Should be let loose against the innocent 

sleep 
Of templed cities and the smiling fields, 
For some poor argument of policy 
Which touches our own profit or our pride, 
(Where it indeed were Christian charity 
To turn the cheek even to the smiter's 

hand) ; 
And, when our great Redeemer, when our 

God, 
When he who gave, accepted, and retained. 
Himself in propitiation of our sins, 261 

Is scorned in his immediate ministry, 
With hazard of the inestimable loss 
Of all the truth and discipline which is 



Salvation to the extremest generation 

Of men innumerable, they talk of peace ! 

Such peace as Canaan found, let Scotland 
now ! 

For, by that Christ who came to bring a 
sword. 

Not peace, upon the earth, and gave com- 
mand 

To his disciples at the passover 270 

That each should sell his robe and buy a 
sword, — 

Once strip that minister of naked wrath, 

And it shall never sleep in peace again 

Till Scotland bend or break. 

KING 

My Lord Archbishop, 
Do what thou wilt and what thou canst in 

this. 
Thy earthly even as thy heavenly King 
Gives thee large power in his unquiet 

realm. 
But we want money, and my mind mis- 
gives me 
That for so great an enterprise, as yet, 
We are unfurnished. 

STRAFFORD 

Yet it may not long 
Rest on our wills. 

COTTINGTON 

The expenses 281 

Of gathering ship-money, and of distraining 
For every petty rate (for we encounter 
A desperate opposition inch by inch 
In every warehouse and on every farm). 
Have swallowed up the gross sum of the 

imposts; 
So that, though felt as a most grievous 

scourge 
Upon the land, they stand us in small stead 
As touches the receipt. 

STRAFFORD 

'T is a conclusior. 
Most arithmetical: and thence you infer 
Perhaps the assembling of a parliament. 
Now, if a man should call his dearest 
enemies 292 

To sit in licensed judgment on his life. 
His Majesty might wisely take that course. 
{Aside to Cottington) 
It is enough to expect from these lean im- 
posts 



FRAGMENTS 



461 



That they perform the office of a scourge, 
Without more profit. 

(Aloud) 

Fines and confiscations, 

And a forced loan from the refractory 

city, 
Will fill our coffers; and the golden love 
Of loyal gentlemen and noble friends 300 
For the worshipped father of our common 

country. 
With contributions from the Catholics, 
Will make Rebellion pale in our excess. 
Be these the expedients until time and 

wisdom 
Shall frame a settled state of government. 

LAUD 

And weak expedients they ! Have we not 

drained 
All, till the which seemed 

A mine exhaustless ? 

STBAFFORD 

And the love which is, 

If loyal hearts could turn their blood to 

gold. 309 

liAUD 

Both now grow barren ; and I speak it not 
As loving parliaments, which, as they have 

been 
In the right hand of bold, bad, mighty 

kings 
The scourges of the bleeding Church, I 

hate. 
Methinks they scarcely can deserve our 

fear. 

STRAFFORD 

Oh, my dear liege, take back the wealth 

thou gavest; 
With that, take all I held, but as in trust 
For thee, of mine inheritance; leave me but 
This unprovided body for thy service. 
And a mind dedicated to no care 
Except thy safety; but assemble not 320 
A parliament. Hundreds will bring, like 

me. 
Their fortunes, as they would their blood, 

before — 

KING 

No ! thou who judgest them art but one. 

Alas! 
We should be too much out of love with 

heaven. 



Did this vile world show many such as 
thee. 

Thou perfect just and honorable man ! 

Never shall it be said that Charles of Eng- 
land 

Stripped those ue loved for fear of those 
he scorns; 

Nor will he so much misbecome his throne 

As to impoverish those who most adorn 

And best defend it. That you urge, deal 
Strafford, 331 

Inclines me rather — 

QUEEN 

To a parliament ? 
Is this thy firmness ? and thou wilt preside 
Over a knot of censurers. 

To the uns wearing of thy best resolves, 
And choose the worst, when the worst 

comes too soon ? 
Plight not the worst before the worst must 

come. 
Oh, wilt thou smile whilst our ribald foes, 
Dressed in their own usurped authority, 
Sharpen their tongues on Henrietta's fame ? 
It is enough ! Thou lovest me no more ! 

( Weeps) 

KING 



Oh, Henrietta ! 



(They talk apart) 



COTTINGTON [to LAUD] 

Money we have none; 
And all the expedients of my Lord of 
Strafford 343 

Will scarcely meet the arrears. 

LAUD 

Without delaj^ 
An array must be sent into the north ; 
Followed by a Commission of the Church, 
With amplest power to quench in fire and 

blood, 
And tears and terror, and the pity of hell, 
Tlie intenser wrath of Heresy. God will 

give 
Victory; and victory over Scotland give 350 
The lion England tamed into our hands. 
That will lend power, and power bring gold 

COTTINGTON 

Meanwhile 
We must begin first where your Grace 

leaves off. 
Gold must give power, or — 



462 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



LAUD 

I am not averse 
From the assembling of a parliament. 
Strong actions and smooth words might 

teach them soon 
The lesson to obey. And are they not 
A bubble fashioned by the monarch's mouth, 
The birth of one light breath? If they 

serve no purpose, 360 

A word dissolves them. 

STRAFFORD 

The engine of parliaments 
Might be deferred until I can bring over 
The Irish regiments; they will serve to 

assure 
The issue of the war against the Scots. 
And, this game won — which if lost, all is 

lost — 
Gather these chosen leaders of the rebels, 
And call them, if you will, a parliament. 

KING 

Oh, be our feet still tardy to shed blood, 
Guilty though it may be ! I would still 
spare 369 

The stubborn country of my birth, and ward 
From countenances which I loved in youth 
The wrathful Church's lacerating hand. 

{To Laud) 
Have you o'erlooked the other articles ? 

Me'enter Archy 

LAUD 

Hazlerig, Hampden, Pym, young Harry 

Vane, 
Cromwell, and other rebels of less note, 
Intend to sail with the next favoring wind 
For the Plantations. 

ARCHY 

Where they think to found 
A commonwealth like Gonzalo's in the play, 
Gynaecoccenic and pantisocratic. 

KING 

What 's that, sirrah ? 

ARCHY 

New devil's politics. 
Hell is the pattern of all commonwealths; 
Lucifer was the first republican. 382 

Will you hear Merlin's prophecy, how three 
("posts ?1 



* In one brainless skull, when the white- 
thorn is full, 

Shall sail round the world, and come back 
again: 

Shall sail round the world in a brainless 
skull, 

And come back again when the moon is at 
full:' — 

When, in spite of the Church, 

They will hear homilies of whatever length 

Or form they please. 390 

[COTTINGTON ?] 

So please your Majesty to sign this order 
For their detention. 

ARCHY 

If your Majesty were tormented night 
and day by fever, gout, rheumatism, and 
stone, and asthma, etc., and you found these 
diseases had secretly entered into a con- 
spiracy to abandon you, should you think it 
necessary to lay an embargo on the port by 
which they meant to dispeople your un- 
quiet kingdom of man ? 

KING 

If fear were made for kings, the Fool 
mocks wisely ; 401 

But in this case — (writing) Here, my lord, 
take the warrant. 

And see it duly executed forthwith. — 

That imp of malice and mockery shall be 
punished. 
[Exeunt all but King, Queen, and Archy. 

ARCHY 

Ay, I am the physician of whom Plato 
prophesied, who was to be accused by the 
confectioner before a jury of children, who 
found him guilty without waiting for the 
summing-up, and hanged him without bene- 
fit of clergy. Thus Baby Charles, and the 
Twelfth-night Queen of Hearts, and the 
overgrown schoolboy Cottington, and that 
little urchin Laud — who would reduce a 
verdict of ' guilty, death,' by famine, if it 
were impregnable by composition — all im- 
panelled against poor Archy for presenting 
them bitter physic the last day of the holi- 
days. 

QUBEN 

Is the rain over, sirrah ? 



FRAGMENTS 



463 



KING 

When it rains 
And the sun shines, 't will rain again to- 
morrow; 420 
And therefore never smile till you 've done 
crying. 

AKCHY 

But 't is all over now ; like the April 
anger of woman, the gentle sky has wept 
itself serene. 

QUEEN 

What news abroad ? how looks the world 
this morning ? 

ARCHY 

Gloriously as a grave covered with virgin 
flowers. There 's a rainbow in the sky. 
Let your Majesty look at it, for 429 

' A rainbow in the morning 
Is the shepherd's warning ; ' 

and the flocks of which you are the pastor 
are scattered among the mountain-tops, 
where every drop of water is a flake of 
snow, and the breath of May pierces like a 
January blast. 

KINO 

The sheep have mistaken the wolf for 
their shepherd, my poor boy; and the shep- 
herd, the wolves for the watchdogs. 439 

QUEEN 

But the rainbow was a good sign, Archy ; 
it says that the waters of the deluge are 
gone, and can return no more. 

AKCHY 

Ay, the salt-water one; but that of tears 
and blood must yet come down, and that of 
fire follow, if there be any truth in lies. — 
The rainbow hung over the city with all its 
shops, . . . and churches, from north to 
south, like a bridge of congregated light- 
ning pieced by the masonry of heaven — 
like a balance in which the angel that dis- 
tributes the coming hour was weighing that 
heavy one whose poise is now felt in the 
lightest hearts, before it bows the proudest 
heads under the meanest feet. 

QUEEN 

Who taught you this trash, sirrah ? 



ARCHT 

A torn leaf out of an old book trampled 
in the dirt. — But for the rainbow. It 
moved as the sun moved, and . . . until 
the top of the Tower ... of a cloud 
through its left-hand tip, and Lambeth 
Palace look as dark as a rock before the 
other. Methought I saw a crown figured 
upon one tip, and a mitre on the other. So, 
as I had heard treasures were found where 
the rainbow quenches its points upon the 

earth, I set off, and at the Tower But 

I shall not tell your Majesty what I found 
close to the closet-window on which the 
rainbow had glimmered. 

KING 

Speak: I will make my Fool my conscience. 

ARCHY 

Then conscience is a fool. — I saw there 
a cat caught in a rat-trap. I heard the 
rats squeak behind the wainscots; it seemed 
to me that the very mice were consulting 
on the manner of her death. 

QUEEN 

Archy is shrewd and bitter. 

ARCHY 

Like the season, 
so blow the winds. — But at the other end 
of the rainbow, where the gray rain was 
tempered along the grass and leaves by a 
tender interfusion of violet and gold in the 
meadows beyond Lambeth, what think you 
that I found instead of a mitre ? 

KING 

Vane's wits perhaps. 

ARCHY 

Something as vain. I saw 
a gross vapor hovering in a stinking ditch 
over the carcass of a dead ass, some rotten 
rags, and broken dishes — the wrecks of 
what once administered to the stuffing-out 
and the ornament of a worm of worms. 
His Grace of Canterbury expects to enter 
the New Jerusalem some Palm Sunday in 
triumph on the ghost of this ass. 

QUEEN 

Enough, enough ! Go desire Lady Jane 
She place my lute, together with the music 



464 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Mari received last week from Italy, 
In my boudoir, and — 

[Exit Archy. 

KING 

1 '11 go in. 

QUEEN 

My beloved lord, 
Have you not noted that the Fool of late 
Has lost his careless mirth, and that his 

words 
Sound like the echoes of our saddest fears ? 
What can it mean ? I should be loath to 

think 500 

Some factious slave had tutored him. 

KING 

Oh, no ! 
He is but Occasion's pupil. Partly 't is 
That our minds piece the vacant intervals 
Of his wild words with their own fashion- 
ing; 
As in the imagery of summer clouds. 
Or coals of the winter fire, idlers find 
The perfect shadows of their teeming 

thoughts; 
And, partly, that the terrors of the time 
Are sown by wandering Rumor in all 

spirits. 
And in the lightest and the least may best 
Be seen the current of the coming wind, sir 

QUEEN 

Your brain is overwrought with these deep 

thoughts. 
Come, I will sing to you; let us go try 
These airs from Italy; and, as we pass 
The gallery, we '11 decide where that Cor- 

reggio 
Shall hang — the Virgin Mother 
With her child, born the King of heaven 

and earth, 
Whose reign is men's salvation. And you 

shall see 
A cradled miniature of yourself asleep, 519 
Stamped on the heart by never-erring love ; 
Liker than any Vandyke ever made, 
A pattern to the unborn age of thee, 
Over whose sweet beauty I have wept for 

joy 

A thousand times, and now should weep 

for sorrow, 
Did I not think that after we were dead 
Our fortunes would spring high in him, 

and that 



The cares we waste upon our heavy crown 
Would make it light and glorious as a 

wreath 
Of heaven's beams for his dear innocent 

brow. 



KING 



Dear Henrietta ! 



530 



Scene III. — The Star Chamber. Laud, 
JuxoN, Strafford, and others, as Judges. 
Prynne, as a Prisoner, and then Bastwick. 

LAUD 

Bring forth the prisoner Bastwick; let the 

clerk 
Recite his sentence. 

clerk 
' That he pay five thousand 
Pounds to the king, lose both his ears, be 

branded 
With red-hot iron on the cheek and fore- 
head. 
And be imprisoned within Lancaster Castle 
During the pleasure of the Court.' 

LAUD 

Prisoner, 
If you have aught to say wherefore this 

sentence 
Should not be put into effect, now speak. 

JUXON 

If you have aught to plead in mitigation, 
Speak. 

BASTWICK 

Thus, my lords. If, like the prelates, I 
Were an invader of the royal power, n 
A public scorner of the word of God, 
Profane, idolatrous, popish, superstitious. 
Impious in heart and in tyrannic act, 
Void of wit, honesty and temperance; 
If Satan were my lord, as theirs, — our 

God 
Pattern of all I should avoid to do; 
Were I an enemy of my God and King 
And of good men, as ye are ; — I should 

merit 
Your fearful state and gilt prosperity, 20 
Which, when ye wake from the last sleep, 

shall turn 
To cowls and robes of everlasting fire. 
But, as I am, I bid ye grudge me not 
The only earthly favor ye can yield, 



FPvAGMENTS 



465 



Or I think worth acceptance at your 
hands, — 

Scorn, mutilation and imprisonment. 

Even as my Master did, 

Until Heaven's kingdom shall descend on 
earth, 

Or earth he like a shadow in the light 

Of Heaven absorbed. Some few tumultu- 
ous years 30 

Will pass, and leave no wreck of what op- 
poses 

His will whose will is power. 

liAUD 

Officer, take the prisoner from the bar, 
And be his tongue slit for his insolence. 

BASTWICK 

While this hand holds a pen — 



liAUD 



Be his hands 



JUXON 

Stop! 
Forbear, my lord ! The tongue, which 

now can speak 
No terror, would interpret, being dumb. 
Heaven's thunder to our harm; . . . 
And hands, which now write only their own 

shame 
With bleeding stumps might sign our blood 

away. 40 

LAUD 

Much more such * mercy ' among men 

would be. 
Did all the ministers of Heaven's revenge 
Flinch thus from earthly retribution. I 
Could suffer what I would inflict. 

[Exit Bast WICK guarded. 
Bring up 
The Lord Bishop of Lincoln. — 

( To Strafford) 

Know you not 

That, in distraining for ten thousand pounds 

Upon his books and furniture at Lincoln, 

Were found these scandalous and seditious 

letters 48 

Sent from one Osbaldistone, who is fled ? 
I speak it not as touching this poor person; 
But of the office which should make it holy. 
Were it as vile as it was ever spotless. 
Mark too, my lord, that this expression 

strikes 
His Majesty, if I misinterpret not. 



Unter Bishop Williams guarded 

STRAFFORD 

'T were politic and just that Williams taste 
The bitter fruit of his connection with 
The schismatics. But you, my Lord Arch- 
bishop, 
Who owed your first promotion to his favor, 
Who grew beneath his smile — 

LAUD 

Would therefore beg 
The office of his judge from this High 

Court, — 60 

That it shall seem, even as it is, that I, 
In my assumption of this sacred robe, 
Have put aside all worldly preference. 
All sense of all distinction of all persons. 
All thoughts but of the service of the 

Church. — 
Bishop of Lincoln [ 

WILLIAMS 

Peace, proud hierarch I 
I know my sentence, and I own it just. 
Thou wilt repay me less than I deserve 
In stretching to the utmost 



Scene IV. — Hampden, Pym, Cromwell, his 
Daughter, a7id young Sir Harry Vane. 

HAMPDEN 

England, farewell ! Thou, who hast been 
my cradle, 

Shalt never be my dungeon or my grave ! 

I held what I inherited in thee 

As pawn for that inheritance of freedom 

Which thou hast sold for thy despoiler's 
smile. 

How can I call thee England, or my coun- 
try?— 

Does the wind hold ? 

VANE 

The vanes sit steady 

Upon the Abbey towers. The silver light- 
nings 

Of the evening star, spite of the city's 
smoke. 

Tell that the north wind reigns in the upper 
air. 10 

Mark too that fleet of fleecy-winged clouds 

Sailing athwart St. Margaret's. 



466 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



HAMPDEN 



Hail, fleet herald 
Of tempest ! that rude pilot who shall 

guide 
Hearts free as his, to realms as pure as 

thee, 
Beyond the shot of tyranny, 
Beyond the webs of that swolu spider . . . 
Beyond the curses, calumnies, and [lies ?] 
Of atheist priests ! And thou 

Fair star, whose beam lies on the wide At- 
lantic, 19 
Athwart its zones of tempest and of calm, 
Bright as the path to a beloved home, 
Ob, light us to the isles of the evening 

land ! 
Like floating Edens cradled in the glimmer 
Of sunset, through the distant mist of years 
Touched by departing hope, they gleam ! 

lone regions. 
Where power's poor dupes and victims yet 

have never 
Propitiated the savage fear of kings 
With purest blood of noblest hearts; whose 

dew 
Is yet unstained with tears of those who 

wake 
To weep each day the wrongs on which it 

dawns; 30 

Whose sacred silent air owns yet no echo 
Of formal blasphemies; nor impious rites 
Wrest man's free worship, from the God 

v/ho loves. 
To the poor worm who envies us his love ! 
Receive, thou young of Paradise, 

These exiles from the old and sinful world ! 

This glorious clime, this firmament, whose 

lights 
Dart mitigated influence through their 

veil 
Of pale blue atmosphere; whose tears keep 

green 
The pavement of this moist all-feeding 

earth; 40 

This vaporous horizon, whose dim round 
Is bastioned by the circumfluous sea, 
Repelling invasion from the sacred 

towers, — 
Presses upon me like a dungeon's grate, 
A low dark roof, a damp and narrow wall. 
The boundless universe 
Becomes a cell too narrow for the soul 
That owns no master; while the loathliest 

ward 



Of this wide prison, England, is a nest 
Of cradling peace built on the mountain 
tops,— 50 

To which the eagle spirits of the free. 
Which range through heaven and earth, 

and scorn the storm 
Of time, and gaze upon the light of truth. 
Return to brood on thoughts that cannot 

die 
And cannot be repelled. 
Like eaglets floating in the heaven of time, 
They soar above their quarry, and shall 

stoop 
Through palaces and temples thunder- 
proof. 

Scene V 

ARCHY 

I '11 go live under the ivy that overgrows 
the terrace, and count the tears shed on its 
old [roots ?] as the [wind ?] plays the song 
of 

' A widow bird sate mourning 
Upon a wintry bough.* 

(Sings) 
Heigho ! the lark and the owl ! 

One flies the morning, and one lulls 
the night; 
Only the nightingale, poor fond soul, 
Sings like the fool through darkness 
and light. 

*A widow bird sate mourning for her 
love io 

Upon a wintry bough; 
The frozen wind crept on above. 

The freezing stream below. 

* There was no leaf upon the forest bare. 

No flower upon the ground, 
And little motion in the air 

Except the mill-wheel's sound.' 



FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFIN- 
ISHED DRAMA 

Date 1821-22. Published in part by Mrs. 
Shelley, 1824, and the remainder by Garnett, 
1862, and Rossetti, 1870. Mrs. Shelley writes ; 
' The following- fragments are part of a drama, 
undertaken for the amusement of the individ- 
uals who composed our intimate society, but 



FRAGMENTS 



467 



left unfinished. I have preserved a sketch of 
the story, so far as it had been shadowed out in 
the poet's mind.' It is possibly connected with 
the project of a play on Trelawny's career. 
Garnett gives a note on the portion which he 
called The Magic Plant. ' A close scrutiny, 
however, of one of Shelley's MS. books has 
revealed the existence of much more of this 
piece than has hitherto been suspected to 
exist. By far the larger portion of this, form- 
ing an episode complete in itself, is here made 
public, under the title of The Magic Plard. 
. . . The little drama of which this charming 
sport of fancy forms a portion was written at 
Pisa during the late winter or early spring of 
1822. The episode of The Magic Plant was 
obviously suggested by the pleasure Shelley 
received from the plants grown indoors in his 
Pisan dwelling, which he says in a letter writ- 
ten in January, 1822, " turn the sunny winter 
into spring." See also the poem of The Zucca, 
composed about the same time.' 

[An Enchantress, living in one of the islands 
of the Indian Archipelago, saves the life of a 
Pirate, a man of savage but noble nature. 
She becomes enamoured of him ; and he, in- 
constant to his mortal love, for a while returns 
her passion : but at length, recalling the mem- 
ory of her whom he left, and who laments his 
loss, he escapes from the enchanted island, and 
returns to his lady. His mode of life makes 
him again go to sea, and the Enchantress 
seizes the opportunity to bring him, by a spirit- 
brewed tempest, back to her island.] 

Scene — Before the Cavern of the Indian En- 
chantress. The Enchantress comes forth. 

ENCHANTRESS 

He came like a dream in the dawn of life, 

He fled like a shadow before its noon; 
He is gone, and my peace is turned to 
strife, 
And I wander and wane like the weary 
moon. 

O sweet Echo, wake, 
And for my sake 
Make answer the while my heart shall 
break ! 

But my heart has a music which Echo's 
lips, 
Though tender and true, yet can answer 
not. 
And the shadow that moves in the soul's 
eclipse 10 

Can return not the kiss by his now for- 
got; 



Sweet lips ! he who hath 
On my desolate path 
Cast the darkness of absence, worse than 

death ! 
{The Enchantress makes her spell : she is an- 
swered by a Spirit) 

spirit 
Within the silent centre of the earth 
My mansion is; where I have lived in- 
sphered 
From the beginning, and around my sleep 
Have woven all the wondrous imagery 
Of this dim spot, which "iQortals call the 

world ; 
Infinite depths of unknown elements 20 
Massed into one impenetrable mask; 
Sheets of immeasurable fire, and veins 
Of gold and stone, and adamantine iron. 
And as a veil in which I walk through 

Heaven 
I have wrought mountains, seas, and waves, 

and clouds. 
And lastly light, whose interfusion dawns 
In the dark space of interstellar air. 



[A good Spirit, who watches over the Pirate's 
fate, leads, in a mysterious manner, the lady of 
his love to the Enchanted Isle. She is accom- 
panied by a youth, who loves the lady, but 
whose passion she returns only with a sisterly 
affection. The ensuing scene takes place be- 
tween them on their arrival at the Isle.] 

Indian Youth and Lady 

INDIAN 

And, if ray grief should still be dearer to me 
Than all the pleasures in the world beside, 
Why would you lighten it ? — 

LADY 

I offer only 
That which I seek, some human sympathy 
In this mysterious island. 

INDIAN 

Oh, my friend. 
My sister, my beloved ! — What do I say ? 
My brain is dizzy, and I scarce know 

whether 
I speak to thee or her. 

LADY 

Peace, perturbed heart ! 
I am to thee only as thou to mine, 



468 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



The passing wind which heals the brow at 

noon, 
And may strike cold into the breast at night, 
Yet cannot linger where it soothes the most. 
Or long soothe could it linger. 



INDIAN 



You also loved ? 



But you said 



LADY 

Loved I Oh, I love. Methinks 
This word of love is fit for all the world, 42 
And that for gentle hearts another name 
Would speak of gentler thoughts than the 

world owns. 
I have loved. 

INDIAN 

And thou lovest not ? if so 
Young as thou art thou canst afford to weep. 

liADY 

Oh, would that I could claim exemption 
From all the bitterness of that sweet name. 
I loved, I love, and when I love no more 
Let joys and grief perish, and leave de- 
spair 50 
To ring the knell of youth. He stood be- 
side me, 
The embodied vision of the brightest dream, 
Which like a dawn heralds the day of life ; 
The shadow of his presence made my world 
A paradise. All familiar things he touched. 
All common words he spoke, became to me 
Like forms and sounds of a diviner world. 
He was as is the sun in his fierce youth, 
As terrible and lovely as a tempest; 59 
He came, and went, and left me what I am. 
Alas ! Why must I think how oft we two 
Have sate together near the river springs. 
Under the green pavilion which the willow 
Spreads on the floor of the unbroken foun- 
tain. 
Strewn, by the nurslings that linger there. 
Over that islet paved with flowers and 

moss, — 
While the musk-rose leaves, like flakes of 

crimson snow. 
Showered on us, and the dove mourned in 

the pine. 
Sad prophetess of sorrows not her own ? 69 
The crane returned to her unfrozen haunt, 
A.nd the false cuckoo bade the spray good 

morn ; 
And on a wintry bough the widowed bird. 



Hid in the deepest night of ivy-leaves. 
Renewed the vigils of a sleepless sorrow. 
I, left like her, and leaving one like her. 
Alike abandoned and abandoning 
(Oh ! unlike her in this !) the gentlest 

youth. 
Whose love had made my sorrows dear to 

him. 
Even as my sorrow made his love to me ! 

INDIAN 

One curse of Nature stamps in the same 
mould 80 

The features of the wretched; and they are 
As like as violet to violet. 
When memory, the ghost, their odors keeps 
Mid the cold relics of abandoned joy. — 
Proceed. 

LADY 

He was a simple innocent boy. 
I loved him well, but not as he desired; 
Yet even thus he was content to be: — 
A short content, for I was . . . 

INDIAN (aside) 

God of heaven ! 
From such an islet, such a river-spring . . . ! 
I dare not ask her if there stood upon it 90 
A pleasure-dome, surmounted by a cres- 
cent, 
With steps to the blue water. (Aloud) It 

may be 
That Nature masks in life several copies 
Of the same lot, so that the sufferers 
May feel another's sorrow as their own 
And find in friendship what they lost in 

love. 
That cannot be: yet it is strange that we, 
From the same scene, by the same path to 

this 
Realm of abandonment . . . But speak ! 

your breath — 
Your breath is like soft music, your words 
are 100 

The echoes of a voice which on my heart 
Sleeps like a melody of early days. 
But as you said — 

IiADY 

He was so awful, yet 
So beautiful in mystery and terror. 
Calming me as the loveliness of heaven 
Soothes the unquiet sea: — and yet not so, 
For he seemed stormy, and would often 
seem 



FRAGMENTS 



469 



A quenchless sun masked in portentous 

clouds; 
For such his thoughts, and even his actions 

were; 109 

But he was not of them, nor they of him, 
But as they hid his splendor from the 

earth. 
Some said he was a man of blood and peril, 
And steeped in bitter infamy to the lips. 
More need was there I should be innocent, 
More need that I should be most true and 

kind, 
And much more need that there should be 

found one 
To share remorse, and scorn and solitude, 
And all the ills that wait on those who do 
The tasks of ruin in the world of life. 
He fled, and I have followed him. 

INDIAN 

Such a one 
Is he who was the winter of my peace. 121 
But, fairest stranger, when didst thou de- 
part 
From the far hills where rise the springs of 

India ? 
How didst thou pass the intervening sea ? 

LADY 

If I be sure I am not dreaming now, 
I should not doubt to say it was a dream. 
Methought a star came down from heaven, 
And rested mid the plants of India, 
Which I had given a shelter from the frost 
Within my chamber. There the meteor 

lay, 130 

Panting forth light among the leaves and 

flowers. 
As if it lived, and was outworn with speed ; 
Or that it loved, and passion made the 

pulse 
Of its bright life throb like an anxious 

heart. 
Till it diffused itself, and all the chamber 
And walls seemed melted into emerald fire 
That burned not ; in the midst of which 

appeared 
A spirit like a child, and laughed aloud 
A thrilling peal of such sweet merriment 
As made the blood tingle in my warm 

feet; 140 

Then bent over a vase, and murmuring 
Low, unintelligible melodies, 
Placed something in the mould like melon- 
seeds, 



And slowy faded, and in place of it 
A soft hand issued from the veil of fire, 
Holding a cup like a magnolia flower. 
And poured upon the earth within the vase 
The element with which it overflowed, 
Brighter than morning light and purer 

than 
The water of the springs of Himalah. 



150 



You waked not ? 



INDIAN 



LADY 



Not until my dream became 
Like a child's legend on the tideless sand. 
Which the first foam erases half, and half 
Leaves legible. At length I rose, and went, 
Visiting my flowers from pot to pot, and 

thought 
To set new cuttings in the empty urns, 
And when I came to that beside the lat- 
tice, 
I saw two little dark-green leaves 
Lifting the light mould at their birth, and 
then 159 

I half-remembered my forgotten dream. 
And day by day, green as a gourd in June, 
The plant grew fresh and thick, yet no one 

knew 
What plant it was; its stem and tendrils 

seemed 
Like emerald snakes, mottled and dia- 
monded 
With azure mail and streaks of woven 

silver; 
And all the sheaths that folded the dark 

buds 
Rose like the crest of cobra-di-capel. 
Until the golden eye of the bright flower 
Through the dark lashes of those veined 

lids. 
Disencumbered of their silent sleep, 170 
Gazed like a star into the morning light. 
Its leaves were delicate, you almost saw 
The pulses 
With which the purple velvet flower was 

fed 
To overflow, and, like a poet's heart 
Changing bright fancy to sweet sentiment, 
Changed half the light to fragrance. It 

soon fell. 
And to a green and dewy embryo-fruit 
Left all its treasured beauty. Day by day 
I nursed the plant, and on the double flute 
Played to it on the sunny winter days i8i 



47° 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Soft melodies, as sweet as April rain 

On silent leaves, and sang those words in 

which 
Passion makes Echo taunt the sleeping 

strings ; 
And I would send tales of forgotten love 
Late into the lone night, and sing wild songs 
Of maids deserted in the olden time. 
And weep like a soft cloud in April's bosom 
Upon the sleeping eyelids of the plant, 
So that perhaps it dreamed that Spring was 

come, 190 

And crept abroad into the moonlight air, 
And loosened all its limbs, as, noon by noon. 
The sun averted less his oblique beam. 

INDIAN 

And the plant died not in the frost ? 

LADY 

It grew; 
And went out of the lattice which I left 
Half open for it, trailing its quaint spires 
Along the garden and across the lawn. 
And down the slope of moss and through 

the tufts 
Of wild-flower roots, and stumps of trees 
o'ergrown 199 

With simple lichens, and old hoary stones, 
On to the margin of the glassy pool, 
Even to a nook of unblown violets 
And lilies-of-the-valley yet unborn, 
Under a pine with ivy overgrown. 
And there its fruit lay like a sleeping lizard 
Under the shadows; but when Spring in- 
deed 
Came to unswathe her infants, and the 

lilies 
Peeped from their bright green masks to 

wonder at 
This shape of autumn couched in their re- 
cess. 
Then it dilated, and it grew until 210 

One half lay floating on the fountain wave. 
Whose pulse, elapsed in unlike sympathies. 
Kept time 

Among the snowy water-lily buds. 
Its shape was such as summer melody 
Of the south wind in spicy vales might 

give 
To some light cloud bound from the golden 

dawn 
r?o fairy isles of evening, and it seemed 
iin hue and form that it had been a mirror 
Of all the hues and forms around it and 



Upon it pictured by the sunny beams 221 
Which, from the bright vibrations of the 

pool. 
Were tlirown upon the rafters and the roof 
Of boughs and leaves, and on the pillared 

stems 
Of the dark sylvan temple, and reflections 
Of every infant flower and star of moss 
And veined leaf in the azure odorous air. 
And thus it lay in the Elysian calm 
Of its own beauty, floating on the line 
Which, like a film in purest space, divided 
The heaven beneath the water from the 
heaven 231 

Above the clouds; and every day I went 
Watching its growth and wondering; 
And as the day grew hot, methought I saw 
A glassy vapor dancing on the pool, 
And on it little quaint and filmy shapes. 
With dizzy motion, wheel and rise and fall. 
Like clouds of gnats with perfect linea- 
ments. 

O friend, sleep was a veil uplift from 

heaven — 
As if heaven dawned upon the world of 

dream — 240 

When darkness rose on the extinguished 

day 
Out of the eastern wilderness. 

INDIAN 

I too 
Have found a moment's paradise in sleep 
Half compensate a hell of waking sorrow. 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 

The circumstances of this poem are described 
by Mrs. Shelley in words that should always 
accompany the verse because of the clearness 
"with which they render the scene of Shelley's 
last composition : ' In the wild but beautiful 
Bay of Spezzia the winds and waves which he 
loved became his playmates. His days were 
chiefly spent on the water ; the management 
of his boat, its alterations and improvements, 
were his principal occupations. At night, 
when the unclouded moon shone on the calm 
sea, he often went alone in his little shallop to 
the rocky caves that bordered it, and sitting 
beneath their shelter wrote The Triumph of 
Life, the last of his productions. The beauty 
but strangeness of this lonely place, the refined 
pleasure which he felt in the companionship of 
a few selected friends, our entire sequestration 



FRAGMENTS 



471 



from the rest of the world, all contributed to 
render this period of his life one of continued 
enjoyment. I am convinced that the two 
months we passed there were the happiest he 
had ever known. . . . 

' At first the fatal boat had not arrived, and 
was expected with great impatience. On 
Monday, May 12th, it came. Williams records 
the long wished for fact in his journal : 
" Cloudy and threatening weather. M. Mag- 
lian called, and after dinner and while walking 
with him on the terrace, we discovered a strange 
sail coming round the point of Porto Venere, 
which proved at length to be Shelley's boat. 
She had left Genoa on Thursday last, but had 
been driven back by the prevailing bad winds. 
A Mr. Heslop and two English seamen brought 
her round, and they speak most highly of her 
performances. She does indeed excite my sur- 
prise and admiration. Shelley and I walked 
to Lerici, and made a stretch off the land to 
try her ; and I find she fetches whatever she 
looks at. In short, we have now a perfect 
plaything for the summer." — It was thus 
that short-sighted mortals welcomed death, he 
having disguised his grim form in a pleasing 
mask ! The time of the friends was now spent 
on the sea ; the weather became fine, and our 
whole party often passed the evenings on the 
water, when the wind promised pleasant sail- 
ing. Shelley and Williams made longer ex- 
cursions ; they sailed several times to Massa ; 
they had engaged one of the seamen who 
brought her round, a boy, by name Charles 
Vivian ; and they had not the slightest appre- 
hension of danger. When the weather was 
unfavorable, they employed themselves with 
alterations in the rigging, and by building a 
boat of canvas and reeds, as light as possible, 
to have on board the other, for the convenience 
of landing in waters too shallow for the larger 
vessel. When Shelley was on board, he had 
his papers with him ; and much of the Tri- 
umph of Life was written as he sailed or 
weltered on that sea which was soon to engulf 
him.' 

The fragment was published by Mrs. Shel- 
ley, 1824 ; she describes it as ' in so unfinished 
a state that I arranged it in its present form 
with the greatest difficulty.' 

Swift as a spirit hastening to his task 
Of glory and of good, the Sun sprang forth 
Rejoicing in his splendor, and the mask 

Of darkness fell from the awakened Earth ; 
The smokeless altars of the mountain 

snows 
Flamed above crimson clouds, and at the 

birth 



Of light the Ocean's orison arose, 

To which the birds tempered their matin 

lay. 
All flowers in field or forest, which unclose 

Their trembling eyelids to the kiss of day, 
Swinging their censers in the element, u 
With orient incense lit by the new ray 

Burned slow and inconsumably, and sent 
Their odorous sighs up to the smiling air; 
And, in succession due, did continent. 

Isle, ocean, and all things that in them 

wear 
The form and character of mortal mould. 
Rise, as the Sun their father rose, to bear 

Their portion of the toil which he of old 
Took as his own and then imposed on 

them. 20 

But I, whom thoughts which must remain 

untold 

Had kept as wakeful as the stars that gem 
The cone of night, now they were laid 

asleep 
Stretched my faint limbs beneath the 

hoary stem 

Which an old chestnut flung athwart the 

steep 
Of a green Apennine. Before me fled 
The night; behind me rose the day; the 

deep 

Was at my feet, and Heaven above my 

head; — 
When a strange trance over my fancy grew 
Which was not slumber, for the shade it 

spread 30 

Was so transparent that the scene came 

through. 
As clear as when a veil of light is drawn 
O'er evening hills they glimmer; and I 

knew 

That I had felt the freshness of that dawn 
Bathe in the same cold dew my brow and 

hair, 
And sate as thus upon that slope of lawn 

Under the self-same bough, and heard as 
there 



472 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



The birds, the fountains and the ocean hold 
Sweet talk in music through the enamoured 
air. ^ ^ 39 

And then a vision on my brain was rolled. 



As in that trance of wondrous thought I lay, 
This was the tenor of my waking dream. 
Methought I sate beside a public way 

Thick strewn with summer dust; and a 

great stream 
Of people there was hurrying to and fro, 
Numerous as gnats upon the evening 

gleam, — 

All hastening onward, yet none seemed to 

know 
Whither he went, or whence he came, or 

why 
He made one of the multitude, and so 

W^as borne amid the crowd, as through the 
sky _ _ 50 

One of the million leaves of summer's bier. 
Old age and youth, manhood and infancy. 

Mixed in one mighty torrent did appear; 
Some flying from the thing they feared, 

and some 
Seeking the object of another's fear; 

And others, as with steps towards the tomb. 
Pored on the trodden worms that crawled 

beneath; 
And others mournfully within the gloom 

Of their own shadow walked, and called it 

death; 
And some fled from it as it were a ghost. 
Half fainting in the affliction of vain 

breath; 61 

But more, with motions which each other 

crossed. 
Pursued or shunned the shadows the clouds 

threw 
Or birds within the noonday ether lost. 

Upon that path where flowers never 

grew, — 
And, weary with vain toil and faint for 

thirst, 
Heard not the fountains whose melodious 

dew 



Out of their mossy cells forever burst, 
Nor felt the breeze which from the forest 

told 
Of grassy paths and wood-lawns inter- 
spersed 70 

With overarching elms, and caverns cold, 
And violet banks where sweet dreams 

brood; but they 
Pursued their serious folly as of old. 

And, as I gazed, methought that in the way 
The throng grew wilder, as the woods of 

June 
When the south wind shakes the extin- 
guished day; 

And a cold glare, intenser than the noon 
But icy cold, obscured with blinding light 
The sun, as he the stars. Like the young 
moon — 

When on the sunlit limits of the night 80 
Her white shell trembles amid crimson air, 
And whilst the sleeping tempest gathers 
might — 

Doth, as the herald of its coming, bear 
The ghost of its dead mother, whose dim 

form 
Bends in dark ether from her infant's 

chair; — 

So came a chariot on the silent storm 

Of its own rushing splendor; and a Shape 

So sate within, as one whom years deform, 

Beneath a dusky hood and double cape, 
Crouching within the shadow of a tomb; 90 
And o'er what seemed the head a cloud- 
like crape 

Was bent, a dun and faint ethereal gloom 
Tempering the light. Upon the chariot- 
beam 
A Janus-visaged Shadow did assume 

The guidance of that wonder-winged team ; 
The shapes which drew it in thick lightnings 
Were lost — I heard alone on the air's soft 
stream 

The music of their ever-moving wings. 
All the four faces of that charioteer 99 

Had their eyes banded; little profit brings 



FRAGMENTS 



473 



Speed in the van and blindness in the rear, 
Nor then avail the beams that quench the 

sun, — 
Or that with banded eyes could pierce the 

sphere 

Of all that is, has been or will be done ; 
So ill was the car guided — but it passed 
With solemn speed majestically on. 

The crowd gave way, and I arose aghast. 
Or seemed to rise, so mighty was the 

trance. 
And saw, like clouds upon the thunder 

blast. 

The million with fierce song and maniac 
dance no 

Raging around. Such seemed the jubilee 
As when to greet some conqueror's ad- 
vance 

Imperial Rome poured forth her living sea 
From senate-house, and forum, and theatre. 
When upon the free 

Had bound a yoke, which soon they stooped 

to bear. 
Nor wanted here the just similitude 
Of a triumphal pageant, for, where'er 

The chariot rolled, a captive multitude 
Was driven; — all those who had grown 
old in power 120 

Or misery; all who had their age subdued 

By action or by suffering, and whose hour 
Was drained to its last sand in weal or woe. 
So that the trunk survived both fruit and 
flower; 

All those whose fame or infamy must grow 
Till the great winter lay the form and 

name 
Of this green earth with them forever low; 

All but the sacred few who could not tame 

Their spirits to the conquerors, but, as soon 

As they had touched the world with living 

flame, 130 

Fled back like eagles to their native 

noon, — 
Or those who put aside the diadem 
Of earthly thrones or gems . . . 



Were there, of Athens or Jerusalem, 
Were neither mid the mighty captives 

seen. 
Nor mid the ribald crowd that followed 

them, 

Nor those who went before fierce and ob- 
scene. 

The wild dance maddens in the van; and 
those 

Who lead it, fleet as shadows on the green, 

Outspeed the chariot, and without repose 
Mix with each other in tempestuous mea- 
sure 141 
To savage music, wilder as it grows. 

They, tortured by their agonizing pleasure, 
Convulsed and on the rapid whirlwinds 

spun 
Of that fierce spirit whose unholy leisure 

Was soothed by mischief since the world 

begun. 
Throw back their heads and loose their 

streaming hair; 
And, in their dance round her who dims 

the sun. 

Maidens and youths fling their wild arms 

in air 
As their feet twinkle; they recede, and 

now, 150 

Bending within each other's atmosphere, 

Kindle invisibly, and, as they glow, 
Like moths by light attracted and repelled, 
Oft to their bright destruction come and 
go: 

Till, like two clouds into one vale im- 
pelled 

That shake the mountains when their light- 
nings mingle 

And die in rain, the fiery band which held 

Their natures, snaps, while the shock still 

may tingle; — 
One falls and then another in the path 
Senseless, nor is the desolation single, 160 

Yet ere I can say where, the chariot hath 
Passed over them — nor other trace I 

find 
But as of foam after the ocean's wrath 



474 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Is spent upon the desert shore. Behind, 
Old men and women foully disarrayed 
Shake their gray hairs in the insulting 
wind 

And follow in the dance, with limbs de- 
cayed, 

Seeking to reach the light which leaves 
them still 

Farther behind and deeper in the shade. 

But not the less with impotence of will 170 
They wheel, though ghastly shadows inter- 
pose 
Round them and round each other, and 
fulfil 

Their work, and in the dust from whence 

they rose 
Sink, and corruption veils them as they 

lie, 
And past in these performs what in 

those. 

Struck to the heart by this sad pageantry. 
Half to myself I said — ' And what is 

this ? 
Whose shape is that within the car ? And 

why ' — 

I would have added — ' is all here 
amiss ? ' — 

But a voice answered — ' Life ! ' — I 
turned, and knew 180 

(O Heaven, have mercy on such wretched- 
ness !) 

That what I thought was an old root which 

grew 
To strange distortion out of the hillside 
Was indeed one of those deluded crew; 

And that the grass, which raethought hung 

so wide 
And white, was but his thin discolored 

hair ; 
And that the holes he vainly sought to hide 

Were or had been eyes : — 'If thou canst, 
forbear 

To join the dance, which I had well for- 
borne ! ' 

Said the grim Feature (of my thought 
aware). 19° 



' I will unfold that which to this deep scorn 
Led me and my companions, and relate 
The progress of the pageant since the 
morn. 

' If thirst of knowledge shall not then abate, 
Follow it thou even to the night; but I 
Am weary.' — Then like one who with the 
weight 

Of his own words is staggered, wearily 
He paused ; and ere he could resume, I 

cried: 
' First, who art thou ? ' — ' Before thy mem- 
ory, 

* I feared, loved, hated, suffered, did, and 

died, 200 

And if the spark with which Heaven lit my 

spirit 
Had been with purer nutriment supplied, 

' Corruption would not now thus much in- 
herit 

Of what was once Rousseau, — nor this 
disguise 

Stain that which ought to have disdained 
to wear it; 

' If I have been extinguished, yet there rise 
A thousand beacons from the spark I 

bore ' — 
' And who are those chained to the car ? ' 

*The wise, 

* The great, the unforgotten, — they who 

wore 
Mitres and helms and crowns, or wreaths 

of light, 210 

Signs of thought's empire over thought; 

their lore 

' Taught them not this, to know themselves; 

their might 
Could not repress the mystery within, 
And, for the morn of truth they feigned, 

deep night 

* Caught them ere evening.' ' Who is he 

with chin 
Upon his breast, and hands crossed on his 

chain ? ' 
'The child of a fierce hour; he sought to 

win 



FRAGMENTS 



475 



* The world, and lost all that it did contain 
Of greatness, in its hope destroyed; and 

more 
Of fame and peace than virtue's self can 
gain 220 

* Without the opportunity which bore 
Him on its eagle pinions to the peak 
From which a thousand climbers have be- 
fore 

* Fallen, as Napoleon fell.' — I felt my 

cheek 
Alter, to see the shadow pass away. 
Whose grasp had left the giant world so 

weak 

That every pigmy kicked it as it lay; 
And much I grieved to think how power 

and will 
In opposition rule our mortal day, 

And why God made irreconcilable 230 

Good and the means of good; and for de- 
spair 
I half disdained mine eyes' desire to fill 

With the spent vision of the times that 
were 

And scarce have ceased to be. ' Dost thou 
behold,' 

Said my guide, ' those spoilers spoiled, Vol- 
taire, 

* Frederick, and Paul, Catherine, and Leo- 

pold, 
And hoary anarchs, demagogues, and 
sage — 

names which the world thinks 
always old, 238 

* For in the battle Life and they did wage. 
She remained conqueror. I was overcome 
By my own heart alone, which neither 

age, 

* Nor tears, nor infamy, nor now the tomb, 
Could temper to its object.' — ' Let them 

pass,' 
I cried, * the world and its mysterious 
doom 

* Is not so much more glorious than it was 
That I desire to worship those who drew 
New figures on its false and fragile glass 



* As the old faded.' — * Figures ever new 
Rise on the bubble, paint them as you 

may; 
We have but thrown, as those before us 
threw, 250 

* Our shadows on it as it passed away. 
But mark how chained to the triumphal 

chair 
The mighty phantoms of an elder day; 

' All that is mortal of great Plato there 
Expiates the joy and woe his Master knew 

not; 
The star that ruled his doom was far too 

fair, 

' And life, where long that flower of Hea- 
ven grew not, 

Conquered that heart by love, which gold, 
or pain, 

Or age, or sloth, or slavery, could subdue 
not. 

' And near him walk the twain, 260 

The tutor and his pupil, whom Dominion 
Followed as tame as vulture in a chain. 

'The world was darkened beneath either 

pinion 
Of him whom from the flock of conquerors 
Fame singled out for her thunder-bearing 

minion; 

' The other long outlived both woes and 

wars, 
Throned in the thoughts of men, and still 

had kept 
The jealous key of truth's eternal doors, 

' If Bacon's eagle spirit had not leapt 
Like lightning out of darkness — he com- 
pelled 270 
The Proteus shape of Nature, as it slept, 

* To wake, and lead him to the caves that 

held 
The treasure of the secrets of its reign. 
See the great bards of elder time, who 

quelled 

' The passions which they sung, as by their 

strain 
May well be known: their living melody 
Tempers its own contagion to the vein 



476 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



* Of those who are infected with it. I 
Have suffered what I wrote, or viler 

pain ! 279 

And so my words have seeds of misery — 

* Even as the deeds of others, not as theirs.' 
And then he pointed to a company, 

'Midst whom I quickly recognized the 
heirs 

Of Caesar's crime, from him to Constan- 
tine; 

The anarch chiefs, whose force and mur- 
derous snares 

Had founded many a sceptre-bearing line. 
And spread the plague of gold and blood 

abroad ; 
And Gregory and John, and men divine. 

Who rose like shadows between man and 

God, 
Till that eclipse, still hanging over heaven, 
Was worshipped, by the world o'er which 

they strode, 291 

For the true sun it quenched. ' Their 

power was given 
But to destroy,' replied the leader: — ' I 
Am one of those who have created, even 

* If it be but a world of agony.' 

* Whence camest thou ? and whither goest 

thou? 
How did thy course begin ? ' I said, * and 
why? 

*Mine eyes are sick of this perpetual 

flow 
Of people, and my heart sick of one sad 

thought — 
Speak ! ' — * Whence I am, I partly seem 

to know, 300 

* And how and by what paths I have been 

brought 
To this dread pass, methinks even thou 

mayst guess. 
Why this should be, my mind can compass 

not; 

' Whither the conqueror hurries me, still 

less. 
But follow thou, and from spectator turn 
Actor or victim in this wretchedness; 



* And what thou wouldst be taught I then 

may learn 
From thee. Now listen : — In the April 

prime. 
When all the forest tips began to burn 

* With kindling green, touched by the 

azure clime 310 

Of the young season, I was laid asleep 
Under a mountain, which from unknown 

time 

* Had yawned into a cavern, high and deep; 
And from it came a gentle rivulet. 
Whose water, like clear air, in its calm 

sweep 

' Bent the soft grass, and kept forever 

wet 
The stems of the sweet flowers, and filled 

the grove 
With sounds which whoso hears must needs 

forget 

* All pleasure and all pain, all hate and 

love. 
Which they had known before that hour of 

rest. 320 

A sleeping mother then would dream not of 

* Her only child who died upon the breast 
At eventide; a king would mourn no more 
The crown of which his brows were dispos- 
sessed 

* When the sun lingered o'er his ocean floor 
To gild his rival's new prosperity; 

Thou wouldst forget thus vainly to deplore 

* Ills, which, if ills, can find no cure from 

thee. 
The thought of which no other sleep will 

quell. 
Nor other music blot from memory, — 330 

' So sweet and deep is the oblivious spell ; 
And whether life had been before that 

sleep 
The heaven which I imagine, or a hell 

' Like this harsh world in which I wake to 

weep, 
I know not. I arose, and for a space 
The scene of woods and waters seemed to 

keep, 



FRAGMENTS 



477 



* Though it was now broad day, a gentle 

trace 
Of light diviner than the common sun 
Sheds on the common earth, and all the 

place 

* Was filled with magic sounds woven into 

one 340 

Oblivious melody, confusing sense 
Amid the gliding waves and shadows dun; 

*And, as I looked, the bright omnipre- 
sence 

Of morning through the orient cavern 
flowed, 

And the sun's image radiantly intense 

* Burned on the waters of the well that 

glowed 
Like gold, and threaded all the forest's 

maze 
With winding paths of emerald fire. There 

stood 

* Amid the sun, as he amid the blaze 

Of his own glory, on the vibrating 350 

Floor of the fountain, paved with flashing 
rays, 

*A Shape all light, which with one hand 

did fling 
Dew on the earth, as if she were the dawn, 
And the invisible rain did ever sing 

* A silver music on the mossy lawn; 
And still before me on the dusky grass. 
Iris her many-colored scarf had drawn: 

* In her right hand she bore a crystal glass. 
Mantling with bright nepenthe; the fierce 

splendor 
Fell from her as she moved under the 
mass 360 

* Of the deep cavern, and, with palms so 

tender 
Their tread broke not the mirror of its 

billow, 
Glided along the river, and did bend her 

* Head under the dark boughs, till like a 

willow, 
Her fair hair swept the bosom of the stream 
That whispered with delight to be its pil- 
low. 



* As one enamoured is upborne in dream 
O'er lily-paven lakes mid silver mist. 

To wondrous music, so this Shape might 
seem 

* Partly to tread the waves with feet which 

kissed 370 

The dancing foam; partly to glide along 
The air which roughened the moist ame- 
thyst, 

*0r the faint morning beams that fell 

among 
The trees, or the soft shadows of the trees; 
And her feet, ever to the ceaseless song 

' Of leaves and winds and waves and birds 

and bees 
And falling drops, moved in a measure new, 
Yet sweet, as on the summer evening 

breeze 

' Up from the lake a shape of golden dew 
Between two rocks, athwart the rising 
moon, 380 

Dances i' the wind, where never eagle flew; 

' And still her feet, no less than the sweet 

tune 
To which they moved, seemed as they 

moved to blot 
The thoughts of him who gazed on them ; 

and soon 

' All that was seemed as if it had been not; 

And all the gazer's mind was strewn be- 
neath 

Her feet like embers; and she, thought by 
thought, 

* Trampled its sparks into the dust of death, 
As Day upon the threshold of the east 
Treads out the lamps of night, until the 

breath 390 

* Of darkness reillumine even the least 

Of heaven's living eyes; like day she came, 
Making the night a dream; and ere she 
ceased 

' To move, as one between desire and 

shame 
Suspended, I said — " If, as it doth seem. 
Thou comest from the realm without a 

name, 



478 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



* " Into tLis valley of perpetual dream, 
Show whence I came, and where I am, and 

why — 
Pass not away upon the passing stream." 

* " Arise and quench thy thirst," was her 

reply. 400 

And, as a shut lily stricken by the wand 
Of dewy morning's vital alchemy, 

* I rose ; and, bending at her sweet com- 

mand, 
Touched with faint lip? the cup she raised. 
And suddenly my brain became as sand 

* Where the first wave had more than half 

erased 
The track of deer on desert Labrador, 
Whilst the wolf, from which they fled 

amazed, 

* Leaves his stamp visibly upon the shore 
Until the second bursts; — so on my sight 
Burst a new Vision, never seen before, 411 

* And the fair Shape waned in the coming 

As veil by veil the silent splendor drops 
From Lucifer, amid the chrysolite 

* Of sunrise, ere it tinge the mountain tops; 
And as the presence of that fairest planet, 
Although unseen, is felt by one who hopes 

* That his day's path may end, as he be- 

gan it, 
In that star's smile whose light is like the 

scent 419 

Of a jonquil when evening breezes fan it, 

* Or the soft note in which his dear lament 
The Brescian shepherd breathes, or the 

caress 
That turned his weary slumber to con- 
tent, — 

* So knew I in that light's severe excess 
The presence of that Shape which on the 

stream 
Moved, as I moved along the wilderness, 

'More dimly than a day-appearing dream, 
The ghost of a forgotten form of sleep, 
A light of heaven whose half-extinguished 
beam 



* Through the sick day, in which we wake 

to weep, 430 

Glimmers, forever sought, forever lost; 
So did that Shape its obscure tenor keep 

' Beside my path, as silent as a ghost. 
But the new Vision, and the cold bright car, 
With solemn speed and stunning music, 
crossed 

'The forest; and, as if from some dread 

war 
Triumphantly returning, the loud million 
Fiercely extolled the fortune of her star. 

* A moving arch of victory, the vermilion 
And green and azure plumes of Iris had 440 
Built high over her wind- winged pavilion; 

* And underneath ethereal glory clad 
The wilderness; and far before her flew 
The tempest of the splendor, which for- 
bade 

' Shadow to fall from leaf and stone. The 

crew 
Seemed in that light, like atomies to dance 
Within a sunbeam. Some upon the new 

* Embroidery of flowers, that did enhance 
The grassy vesture of the desert, played, 
Forgetful of the chariot's swift advance; 45* 

* Others stood gazing, till within the shade 
Of the great mountain its light left them 

dim; 
Others outspeeded it; and others made 

* Circles around it, like the clouds that swim 
Round the high moon in a bright sea of air; 
And more did follow, with exulting hymn, 

* The chariot and the captives fettered there; 
But all like bubbles on an eddying flood 
Fell into the same track at last, and were 

* Borne onward. I among the multitude 
Was swept. Me sweetest flowers delayed 

not long; 461 

Me not the shadow nor the solitude; 

' Me not that falling stream's Lethean 

song; 
Me not the phantom of that early Form 
Which moved upon its motion; but among 



FRAGMENTS 



479 



* The thickest billows of that living storm 

I plunged, and bared my bosom to the 
clime 

Of that cold light, whose airs too soon de- 
form. 

* Before the chariot had begun to climb 
The opposing steep of that mysterious dell, 
Behold a wonder worthy of the rhyme 471 

* Of him who from the lowest depths of hell, 
Through every paradise and through all 

glory, 
Love led serene, and who returned to tell 

* The words of hate and awe, — the won- 

drous story 
How all things are transfigured except 

Love; 
For deaf as is a sea which wrath makes 

hoary, 

* The world can hear not the sweet notes 

that move 
The sphere whose light is melody to 

lovers, — 
A wonder worthy of his rhyme. The grove 

' Grew dense with shadows to the inmost 
covers; 481 

The earth was gray with phantoms; and 
the air 

Was peopled with dim forms, as when there 
hovers 

* A flock of vampire-bats before the glare 
Of the tropic sun, bringing, ere evening, 
Strange night upon some Indian isle. 

Thus were 

'Phantoms diffused around; and some did 

fling 
Shadows of shadows, yet unlike themselves. 
Behind them; some like eaglets on the 

wing 

* Were lost in the white day ; others like 

elves 490 

Danced in a thousand unimagined shapes 
Upon the sunny streams and grassy shelves ; 

'And others sate chattering like restless 

apes 
On vulgar hands, . . . 
Some made a cradle of the ermined capes 



' Of kingly mantles ; some across the tiar 
Of pontiffs sate like vultures; others played 
Under the crown which girt with empire 

' A baby's or an idiot's brow, and made 
Their nests in it. The old anatomies 500 
Sate hatching their bare broods under the 
shade 

' Of demon wings, and laughed from their 

dead eyes 
To reassume the delegated power, 
Arraj'ed in which those worms did mon- 

archize 

'Who made this earth their charnel. 

Others more 
Humble, like falcons, sate upon the fist 
Of common men, and round their heads 

did soar; 

' Or like small gnats and flies, as thick as 

mist 
On evening marshes, thronged about the 

brow 509 

Of lawyers, statesmen, priest and theorist; 

* And others, like discolored flakes of 

snow. 
On fairest bosoms and the sunniest hair, 
Fell, and were melted by the youthful 

glow 

' Which they extinguished; and, like tears, 

they were 
A veil to those from whose faint lids they 

rained 
In drops of sorrow. I became aware 

' Of whence those forms proceeded which 

thus stained 
The track in which we moved. After 

brief space. 
From every form the beauty slowly waned ; 

* From every firmest limb and fairest face 
The strength and freshness fell like dust, 

and left 521 

The action and the shape without the grace 

* Of life. The marble brow of youth was 

cleft 
With care; and in those eyes where once 

hope shone. 
Desire, like a lioness bereft 



480 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



* Of her last cub, glared ere it died; each 

one 
Of that great crowd sent forth incessantly 
These shadows, numerous as the dead 

leaves blown 

* In autumn evening from a poplar tree. 529 
Each like himself and like each other were 
At first; but some, distorted, seemed to be 

* Obscure clouds, moulded by the casual 

air; 
And of this stuff the car's creative ray 
Wrought all the busj phantoms that were 

there, 

*As the sun shapes the clouds. Thus on 

the way 
Mask after mask fell from the countenance 
And form of all; and, long before the day 

*Was old, the joy, which waked like 

heaven's glance 
The sleepers in the oblivious valley, died; 
And some grew weary of the ghastly dance, 

* And fell, as I have fallen, by the way- 

side; — 541 

Those soonest from whose forms most 

shadows passed, 
And least of strength and beauty did abide.' 

* Then, what is life ? I cried.' — 



II 

MINOR FRAGMENTS 

These minor fragments have been recovered, 
often with great difficulty, principally from 
the Shelley MSS., by successive editors. Their 
general character is described by Mrs. Shelley : 
' In addition to such poems as have an iiitelli- 
f^ible aim and shape, many a stray idea and 
transitory emotion found imperfect and abrupt 
expression, and then again lost themselves in 
silence. As he never wandered without a book 
and without implements of writing', 1 find 
many such in his manuscript books, that 
scarcely bear record ; while some of them, 
broken and vague as they are, will appear 
valuable to those who love Shelley's mind, and 
desire to trace its workings.' The titles are, 
as a rule, those given in previoiis editions. 
The dates of composition, often conjectural, 
fV^d of publication, are affixed. 



HOME 

Dear home, thou scene of earliest hopes 

and joys, 
The least of which wronged Memory ever 

makes 
Bitterer than all thine unremembered tears. 
1816. Garnett, 1862. 



FRAGMENT OF A GHOST STORY 

A SHOVEL of his ashes took 
From the hearth's obscurest nook, 
Muttering mysteries as she went. 
Helen and Henry knew that Granny 
Was as much afraid of ghosts as any, 

And so they followed hard — 
But Helen clung to her brother's arm, 
And her own spasm made her shake. 

1816. Garnett, 1862. 



TO MARY 

Mary dear, that you were here ! 
With your brown eyes bright and clear. 

And your sweet voice, like a bird 
Singing love to its lone mate 
In the ivy bower disconsolate; 
Voice the sweetest ever heard! 
And your brow more 
Than the sky 

Of this azure Italy. 
Mary dear, come to me soon, 

1 am not well whilst thou art far; 
As sunset to the sphered moon, 
As twilight to the western star, 
Thou, beloved, art to me. 

O Mary dear, that you were here ! 
The Castle echo whispers * Here ! ' 
Este, 1818. Mrs. Shelley, 1824. 



TO MARY 

This, and the following, probably refer tt» 
Mrs. Shelley's grief for the death of their child, 
William. 

The world is dreary, 
And I am weary 
Of wandering on without thee, Mary ; 



FRAGMENTS 



481 



A joy was erewhile 
In thy voice and thy smile, 
And 't is gone, when I should be gone too, 
Mary. 
1819. Mrs. SheUey, 1839, 2d ed. 



TO MARY 

My dearest Mary, wherefore hast thou 

gone, 
And left me in this dreary world alone ! 
Thy form is here indeed — a lovely one — 
But thou art fled, gone down the dreary 

road. 
That leads to Sorrow's most obscure abode ; 
Thou sittest on the hearth of pale despair, 

where 
For thine own sake I cannot follow thee. 
1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 2d ed. 



TO WILLIAM SHELLEY 

With what truth may I say — 

Roma, Roma, Roma, 
Non e pill come era pi'ima ! 

Mrs. Shelley describes Shelley's grief for 
the death of this child : ' Shelley had suffered 
severely from the death of our son during- this 
summer. His heart, attuned to every kindly 
affection, was full of burning love for his off- 
spring. No words can express the anguish he 
felt when his elder children were torn from 
him. . . . When afterwards this child [Wil- 
liam] died at Rome, he wrote, apropos of the 
English burying ground in that city : " This 
spot is the repository of a sacred loss, of which 
the yearnings of a parent's heart are now pro- 
phetic ; he is rendered immortal by love, as his 
memory is by death. My beloved child is bu- 
ried here. I envy death the body far less than 
the oppressors the minds of those whom they 
have torn from me. The one can only kill the 
body, the other crushes the affections." ' 



My lost William, thou in whom 

Some bright spirit lived, and did 
That decaying robe consume 

Which its lustre faintly hid, — 
Here its ashes find a tomb; 
But beneath this pyramid 
Thou art not — if a thing divine 
Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine 
Is thy mother's grief and mine. 



II 

Where art thou, my gentle child ? 

Let me think thy spirit feeds, 
With its life intense and mild, 
The love of living leaves and weeds 
Among these tombs and ruins wild; 

Let me think that through low seeds 
Of sweet flowers and sunny grass 
Into their hues and scents may pass 

A portion 

June, 1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1824. 

LINES WRITTEN FOR THE POEM 
TO WILLIAM SHELLEY 



The world is now our dwelling-place; 
Where'er the earth one fading trace 

Of what was great and free does keep, 
That is our home ! 
Mild thoughts of man's ungentle race 

Shall our contented exile reap; 
For who that in some happy place 
His own free thoughts can freely chase 
By woods and waves can clothe his face 

In cynic smiles ? Child ! we shall weep, 

II 

This lament. 
The memory of thy grievous wrong 
Will fade 

But genius is Omnipotent 
To hallow 

1818. Garnett, 1862. 

TO WILLIAM SHELLEY 

Thy little footsteps on the sands 
Of a remote and lonely shore; 
The twinkling of thine infant hands 

Where now the worm will feed no more; 
Thy mingled look of love and glee 
When we returned to gaze on thee — 

1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed. 

TO CONSTANTIA 

I 

The rose that drinks the fountain dew 

In the pleasant air of noon. 
Grows pale and blue with altered hue 

In the gaze of the nightly moon; 
For the planet of frost, so cold and bright, 
Makes it wan with her borrowed light. 



482 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



II 

Such is my heart — roses are fair, 
And that at best a withered blossom; 

But thy false care did idly wear 

Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom; 

And fed with love, like air and dew, 

Its growth 

1817. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed. 



TO EMILIA VIVIANI 

Medwin writes : ' Shelley felt deeply the 
fate of poor Emilia, frequently wrote to her, 
and received from her in reply bouquets of 
flowers, in return for one of which he sent her 
the following exquisite madrigal.' 



Madonna, wherefore hast thou sent to me 

Sweet-basil and mignonette ? 
Embleming love and health, which never 

yet 
In the same wreath might be. 

Alas, and they are wet ! 
Is it with thy kisses or thy tears ? 
For never rain or dew 
Such fragrance drew 
From plant or flower — the very doubt en- 
dears 
My sadness ever new. 
The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed for 
thee. 

II 

Send the stars light, but send not love to 
me, 

In whom love ever made 
Health like a heap of embers soon to fade. 

March, 1821. Mrs. Shelley, 1824, completed 
by Garnett, 1862, Forman, 1876. 



TO 



Rossetti conjectures that Byron is addressed. 

O MIGHTY mind, in whose deep stream 

this age 
Shakes like a reed in the unheeding storm. 
Why dost thou curb not thine own sacred 

rage ? 
1818. Garnett, 1862. 



SONNET TO BYRON 

Medwin writes : ' What his real opinion of 
Byron's powers was may be collected from a 
sonnet he once showed me, and which the sub- 
ject of it never saw. The sentiments accord 
well with that diffidence of his own powers, 
that innate modesty which always distinguished 
him. It begins thus ' 

[I am afraid these verses will not please you, 

but] 

If I esteemed you less. Envy would kill 
Pleasure, and leave to Wonder and De- 
spair 
The ministration of the thoughts that fill 
The mind which, like a worm whose life 
may share 
A portion of the unapproachable, 

Marks your creations rise as fast and fair 
As perfect worlds at the Creator's will. 
But such is my regard that nor your 
power 
To soar above the heights where others 
[climb], 
Nor fame, that shadow of the unborn 

hour 
Cast from the envious future on the 
time. 
Move one regret for his unhonored name 
Who dares these words : — the worm be- 
neath the sod 
May lift itself in homage of the God. 
1821. Medwin, 1832, 1847, revised by Ros. 
setti, 1870. 

A LOST LEADER 

My head is wild with weeping for a grief 
Which is the shadow of a gentle mind. 

I walk into the air (but no relief 

To seek, — or haply, if I sought, to find ; 

It came unsought) ; — to wonder that a chief 
Among men's spirits should be cold and 

blind. 
1818. Rossetti, 1870. 



ON KEATS 

WHO DESIRED THAT ON HIS TOMB 
SHOULD BE INSCRIBED — 

' Here lieth One whose name was writ on 

water ! ' 
But ere the breath that could erase it blew 



FRAGMENTS 



483 



Death, in remorse for that fell slaughter, — 
Death, the immortalizing winter, flew 
Athwart the stream, and time's printless 

torrent grew 
A scroll of crystal, blazoning the name 
Of Adonais ! 
1821. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed. 



TO 



Rossetti conjectures that the lines are ad- 
dressed to Leigh Hunt ; Forman, that they 
may be a cancelled passage of Rosalind and 
Helen. 

For me, my friend, if not that tears did 
tremble 
In my faint eyes, and that my heart beat 
fast 
With feelings which make rapture pain 
resemble. 
Yet, from thy voice that falsehood starts 

aghast, 
I thank thee — let the tyrant keep 
His chains and tears, j'ea let him weep 
With rage to see thee freshly risen, 
Like strength from slumber, from the 

prison, 
In which he vainly hoped the soul to bind 
Which on the chains must prey that fetter 
humankind. 
1817. Garnett, 1862. 

MILTON'S SPIRIT 

I DREAMED that Milton's spirit rose, and 

took 
From life's green tree his Uranian lute; 
And from his touch sweet thunder flowed, 

and shook 
All human things built in contempt of 

man, — 
And sanguine thrones and impious altars 

quaked, 
Prisons and citadels. 
1820. Rossetti, 1870. 

'MIGHTY EAGLE' 

Mighty eagle ! thou that soarest 
O'er the misty mountain forest, 

And amid the light of morning 
Like a cloud of glory hiest, 
And when night descends defiest 

The embattled tempests' warning ! 
1817. Forman, 1882. 



LAUREL 

* What art thou, presumptuous, who pro- 

fanest 
The wreath to mighty poets only due, 
Even whilst like a forgotten moon thou 
wanest ? 
Touch not those leaves which for the 
eternal few 
Who wander o'er the paradise of fame, 

In sacred dedication ever grew: 
One of the crowd thou art without a name,* 

* Ah, friend, 't is the false laurel that I wear. 

Bright though it seem, it is not the same 
As that which bound Milton's immortal 
hair: 
Its dew is poison; and the hopes that 
quicken 
Under its chilling shade, though seeming 
fair, 
Are flowers which die almost before they 

sicken.' 
1821. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed. 

'ONCE MORE DESCEND' 

Forman conjectures this and the following to 
be fragments of Otho. 

Once more descend 

The shadows of my soul upon mankind; 

For, to those hearts with which they never 

blend, 

Thoughts are but shadows which the 

flashing mind 

From the swift clouds, which track its 

flight of fire. 
Casts on the gloomy world it leaves behind. 
1817. Garnett, 1862. 

INSPIRATION 

Those whom nor power, nor lying faith, 
nor toil, 
Nor custom, queen of many slaves, 
makes blind, 
Have ever grieved that man should be the 
spoil 
Of his own weakness, and with earnest 
mind 
Fed hopes of its redemption; these recur 
Chastened by deathful victory now, and 
find 
Foundations in this foulest age, and stir 
Me whom they cheer to be their minister. 
1817. Garnett, 1862. 



484 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



TO THE PEOPLE OF ENGLAND 

People of England, ye who toil and 
groan, 

Who reap the harvests which are not your 
own, 

Who weave the clothes which your op- 
pressors wear, 

And for your own take the inclement 
air; 

Who build warm houses . . . 

And are like gods who give them all they 
have. 

And nurse them from the cradle to the 
grave . . . 
1819. Garnett, 1862. 



♦WHAT MEN GAIN FAIRLY 

Forman joins this with the preceding. 

What men gain fairly, that they should 

possess; 
And children may inherit idleness, 
From him who earns it — this is under- 
stood ; 
Private injustice may be general good. 
But he who gains by base and armed 

wrong, 
Or guilty fraud, or base compliances. 
May be despoiled; even as a stolen dress 
Is stripped from a convicted thief, and he 
Left in the nakedness of infamy. 
1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 2d ed. 



ROME 

Rome has fallen; ye see it lying 

Heaped in undistinguished ruin: 
Nature is alone undying. 
1819. Mrs. SheUey, 1839, 2d ed. 



TO ITALY 

As the sunrise to the night, 

As the north wind to the clouds. 

As the earthquake's fiery flight. 
Ruining mountain solitudes, 

Everlasting Italy, 

Be those hopes and fears on thee. 
1819. Garnett, 1862. 



'UNRISEN SPLENDOR' 

Unrisen splendor of the brightest sun, 
To rise upon our darkness, if the star 
Now beckoning thee out of thy misty throne 
Could thaw the clouds which wage an ob- 
scure war 
With thy young brightness ! 
1820. Garnett, 1862. 



TO ZEPHYR 

Come, thou awakener of the spirit's ocean, 

Zephyr, whom to thy cloud or cave 
No thought can trace ! speed with thy 
gentle motion ! 
1821. Rossetti, 1870. 



• FOLLOW ' 

Follow to the deep wood's weeds, 
Follow to the wild briar dingle, 
Where we seek to intermingle. 
And the violet tells her tale 
To the odor-scented gale, 
For they two have enough to do 
Of such work as I and you. 
1819. Garnett, 1862. 



THE RAIN-WIND 

The gentleness of rain was in the wind. 

1821. Rossetti, 1870. 



RAIN 

The fitful alternations of the rain, 
When the chill wind, languid as with pain 
Of its own heavy moisture, here and there 
Drives through the gray and beamless at- 
mosphere. 
1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 2d ed. 

•WHEN SOFT WINDS' 

When soft winds and sunny skies 
With the green earth harmonize, 
And the young and dewy dawn. 
Bold as an unhunted fawn. 
Up the windless heaven is gone, — 
Laugh — for, ambushed in the day, 
Clouds and whirlwinds watch their prey. 
182 1 . Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 2d ed. 



FRAGMENTS 



485 



THE VINE 

Flourishing vine, whose kindling clusters 
glow 
Beneath the autumnal sun, none taste of 
thee; 
For thou dost shroud a ruin, and below 
The rotting bones of dead antiquity. 
1818. Rossetti, 1870. 

THE WANING MOON 

And like a dying lady, lean and pale. 
Who totters forth, wrapped in a gauzy 

veil, 
Out of her chamber, led by the insane 
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain, 
The mood arose up in the murky East, 
A white and shapeless mass. 
1820. Mrs. Shelley, 1824. 

TO THE MOON 

Bright wanderer, fair coquette of heaven, 
To whom alone it has been given 
To change and be adored forever, 
Envy not this dim world, for never 
But once within its shadow grew 

One fair as 

1822. Garnett, 1862. 

TO THE MOON 



Art thou pale for weariness 
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the 
earth, 
W^andering companionless 
Among the stars that have a different 

birth, — 
And ever changing, like a joyless eye 
That finds no object worth its constancy ? 

II 

Thou chosen sister of the spirit. 
That gazes on thee till in thee it pities . . . 

1820. Mrs. Shelley, 1824, completed by 
Rossetti, 1870. 

POETRY AND MUSIC 

How sweet it is to sit and read the tales 
Of mighty poets, and to hear the while 



Sweet music, which when the attention 

fails 
Fills the dim pause ! 

1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 2d ed. 



'A GENTLE STORY' 

A GENTLE story of two lovers young. 
Who met in innocence and died in sor- 
row, 
And of one selfish heart, whose rancor 
clung 
Like curses on them; are ye slow to 
borrow 
The lore of truth from such a tale ? 
Or in this world's deserted vale. 
Do ye not see a star of gladness 
Pierce the shadows of its sadness, — 
When ye are cold, that love is a light sent 
From heaven, which none shall quench, to 
cheer the innocent ? 
1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 2d ed. 



THE LADY OF THE SOUTH 

Faint with love, the Lady of the South 

Lay in the paradise of Lebanon 
Under a heaven of cedar boughs; the 
drouth 
Of love was on her lips; the light was 
gone 
Out of her eyes. 

1821. Rossetti, 1870. 



THE TALE UNTOLD 

One sung of thee who left the tale untold, 

Like the false dawns which perish in the 

bursting; 

Like empty cups of wrought and daedal 

.gold. 

Which mock the lips with air, when they 

are thirsting. 
1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 2d ed. 



WINE OF EGLANTINE 

I AM drunk with the honey wine 
Of the moon-unfolded eglantine, 
W^hich fairies catch in hyacinth bowls. 
The bats, the dormice, and the moles 



486 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Sleep in the walls or under the sward 
Of the desolate Castle yard; 
And when 't is spilt on the summer earth 
Or its fumes arise among the dew, 
Their jocund dreams are full of mirth, 
They gibber their joy in sleep; for few 
Of the fairies bear those bowls so new ! 
1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed. 

A ROMAN'S CHAMBER 

I 

In the cave which wild weeds cover 
Wait for thine ethereal lover; 
For the pallid moon is waning. 
O'er the spiral cypress hanging. 
And the moon no cloud is staining. 

II 

It was once a Roman's chamber, — 
And the wild weeds twine and clamber, 
Where he kept his darkest revels; 
It was then a chasm for devils. 
1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 2d ed. 

SONG OF THE FURIES 

When a lover clasps his fairest, 
Then be our dread sport the rarest. 
Their caresses were like the chaff 
In the tempest, and be our laugh 
His despair — her epitaph ! 

When a mother clasps a child. 
Watch till dusty Death has piled 
His cold ashes on the clay; 
She has loved it many a day — 
She remains, — it fades away. 
1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 2d ed. 

'THE RUDE WIND IS SINGING' 

The rude wind is singing 

The dirge of the music dead; 

The cold worms are clinging 
Where kisses were lately fed. 
1821. Mrs. SheUey, 1839, 1st ed. 

BEFORE AND AFTER 

The babe is at peace within the womb; 
The corpse is at rest within the tomb: 

We begin in what we end. 

1821. Mrs. SheUey, 1839, 2d ed. 



THE SHADOW OF HELL 

A GOLDEN-WINGED Angel stood 

Before the Eternal Judgment-seat: 
His looks were wild, and Devils' blood 

Stained his dainty hands and feet. 
The Father and the Son 
Knew that strife was now begun. 
They knew that Satan had broken his 

chain, 
And with millions of demons in his train. 
Was ranging over the world again. 
Before the Angel had told his tale, 
A sweet and a creeping sound 
Like the rushing of wings was heard 
around ; 
And suddenly the lamps grew pale — 
The lamps, before the Archangels seven — 
That burn continually in heaven. 
1817. Rossetti, 1870. 



CONSEQUENCE 

The viewless and invisible Consequence 
Watches thy goings-out, and comings-in. 
And . . . hovers o'er thy guilty sleep. 
Unveiling every new-born deed, and 

thoughts 
More ghastly than those deeds. 
1820. Rossetti, 1870. 



A HATE-SONG 

Rossetti gives the source of this : ' Mr. 
Browning- has furnished me with this amusing 
absurdity, retailed to him by Leigh Hunt. 
It seems that Hunt and Shelley were talking 
one day (probably in or about 1817) concerning 
Love-Songs ; and Shelley said that he did n't 
see why Hate-Songs also should not be written, 
and that he could do them ; and on the spot 
he improvised these lines of doggerel.' 

A Hater he came and sat by a ditch, 
And he took an old cracked lute; 

And he sang a song which was more of a 
screech 
'Gainst a woman that was a brute. 
1817. Rossetti, 1870. 

A FACE 

His face was like a snake's — wrinkled and 

loose 
And withered. 

1820. Rossetti, 1870. 



FRAGMENTS 



487 



THE POET'S LOVER 

I AM as a spirit who has dwelt 
Within his heart of hearts, and I have felt 
His feelings, and have thought his thoughts, 

and known 
The inmost converse of his soul, the tone 
Unheard but in the silence of his blood, 
When all the pulses in their multitude 
Image the trembling calm of summer seas. 
I have unlocked the golden melodies 
Of his deep soul, as with a master-key. 
And loosened them and bathed myself 

therein — 
Even as an eagle in a thunder-mist 
Clothing his wings with lightning. 
1819. Gamett, 1862. 

'I WOULD NOT BE A KING' 

I WOULD not be a king — enough 

Of woe it is to love; 
The path to power is steep and rough, 

And tempests reign above. 
I would not climb the imperial throne; 
'T is built on ice which fortune's sun 

Thaws in the height of noon. 
Then farewell, king, yet were I one, 

Oare would not come so soon. 
Would he and I were far away 
Keeping flocks on Himalay ! 

1821. Mrs. SheUey, 1839, 2d ed. 



♦IS IT THAT IN SOME BRIGHTER 
SPHERE ' 

Is it that in some brigliter sphere 
We part from friends we meet with here ? 
Or do we see the Future pass 
Over the Present's dusky glass ? 
Or what is that that makes us seem 
To patch up fragments of a dream. 
Part of which comes true, and part 
Beats and trembles iii the heart ? 
1819. Garnett, 1862. 

TO-DAY 

And who feels discord now or sorrow ? 

Love is the universe to-day; 
These are the slaves of dim to-morrow. 

Darkening Life's labyrinthine way. 

1819. Mrs. SheUey, 1839, 1st ed. 



LOVE'S ATMOSPHERE 

There is a warm and gentle atmosphere 
About the form of one we love, and thus 
As in a tender mist our spirits are 
Wrapped in the of that which is to us 

The health of life's own life. 
1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 2d ed. 



TORPOR 

My head is heavy, my limbs are weary, 
And it is not life that makes me move. 
1820. Garnett, 1862. 



'WAKE THE SERPENT NOT» 

Wake the serpent not — lest he 
Should not know the way to go; 
Let him crawl which yet lies sleeping 
Through the deep grass of the meadow I 
Not a bee shall hear him creeping. 
Not a May-fly shall awaken. 
From its cradling blue-bell shaken, 
Not the starlight as he 's sliding 
Through the grass with silent gliding. 
1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 2d ed. 



'IS NOT TO-DAY ENOUGH?' 

Is not to-day enough ? Why do I peer 
Into the darkness of the day to come ? 
Is not to-morrow even as yesterday ? 
And will the day that follows change thy 
doom ? 
Few flowers grow upon thy wintry way; 
And who waits for thee in that cheerless 
home 
Whence thou hast fled, whither thou must 

return 
Charged with the load that makes thee faint 
and mourn ? 
1819. Garnett, 1862. 



'TO THIRST AND FIND NO FILL' 

Mrs. Shelley introduces the fragment thus '. 
' And then again this melancholy trace of the 
sad thronging thoiig'hts, which were the well 
whence he drew the idea of Athanase, and 



4S8 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



express the restless, passion-fraught emotions of 
one whose sensibility, kindled to too intense 
a life, perpetually preyed upon itself.' For- 
man conjectures that it is a cancelled passage 
of Julian and Maddalo. 

To thirst and find no fill — to wail and wan- 
der 

With short uneasy steps — to pause and 
ponder — 

To feel the blood run through the veins 
and tingle 

Where busy thought and blind sensation 
mingle; 

To nurse the image of unfelt caresses 

Till dim imagination just possesses 

The half-created shadow. 

1817. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed. 



LOVE 

Mrs. Shelley introduces the fragment thus : 
* In the next page 1 find a calmer sentiment, 
better fitted to sustain one whose whole being 
was love.' 

Wealth and dominion fade into the mass 
Of the great sea of human right and 
wrong, 
When once from our possession they must 
pass; 
But love, though misdirected, is among 
The things which are immortal, and sur- 
pass 
All that frail stuff which will be — or which 
was. 
1817. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed. 



MUSIC 



I PANT for the music which is divine. 
My heart in its thirst is a dying flower ; 

Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine, 
Loosen the notes in a silver shower; 

Like a herbless plain for the gentle rain, 

I gasp, I faint, till they wake again. 

II 

Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet 
sound. 

More, oh, more, — I am thirsting yet; 
It loosens the serpent which care has bound 

Upon my heart to stifle it; 



The dissolving strain through every vein 
Passes into my heart and brain. 

Ill 

As the scent of a violet withered up. 

Which grew by the brink of a silver lake, 
When the hot noon has drained its dewy 
cup. 
And mist there was none its thirst to 
slake — 
And the violet lay dead while the odor flew 
On the wings of the wind o'er the waters 
blue — 

IV 

As one who drinks from a charmed cup 
Of foaming, and sparkling, and murmur- 
ing wine, 

Whom, a mighty enchantress filling up, 
Invites to love with her kiss divine — 

1821. Mrs. Shelley, 1824. 



TO ONE SINGING 

My spirit like a charmed bark doth swim 
Upon the liquid waves of thy sweet sing- 
ing. 
Far away into the regions dim 

Of rapture — as a boat, with swift sails 
winging 
Its way adown some many-winding river. 
1817. Mrs. SheUey, 1839, 1st ed. 



TO MUSIC 

Silver key of the fountain of tears. 

Where the spirit drinks till the brain is 
wild; 
Softest grave of a thousand fears, 

Where their mother, Care, like a drowsy 

child, 
Is laid asleep in flowers. 
1817. Mrs. SheUey, 1839, 1st ed. 



TO MUSIC 

No, Music, thou art not the * food of Love,' 
Unless Love feeds upon its own sweet self. 
Till it becomes all Music murmurs of. 
1817. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed. 



FRAGMENTS 



489 



'I FAINT, I PERISH WITH MY 
LOVE ! ' 

I FAINT, I perish with my love ! I grow 
Frail as a cloud whose [splendors] pale 

Under the evening's ever-changing glow ; 
I die like mist upon the gale, 

And like a wave under the calm I fail. 
1821. Rossetti, 1870. 



TO SILENCE 

Silence ! Oh, well are Death and Sleep 

and Thou 
Three brethren named, the guardians 

gloomy- winged 
Of one abyss, where life, and truth, and 

joy 
Are swallowed up — yet spare me, Spirit, 

pity me, 
Until the sounds I hear become my soul, 
And it has left these faint and weary limbs. 
To track along the lapses of the air 
This wandering melody until it rests 
Among lone mountains in some . . . 
1818. Garnett, 1862. 



'OH, THAT A CHARIOT OF CLOUD 
WERE MINE!' 

Oh, that a chariot of cloud were mine ! 
Of cloud which the wild tempest weaves 
in air. 
When the moon over the ocean's line 

Is spreading the locks of her bright gray 
hair. 
Oh, that a chariot of cloud were mine ! 
I would sail on the waves of the billowy 
wind 
To the mountain peak and the rocky lake, 
And the . . . 

1817. Garnett, 1862. 



*THE FIERCE BEASTS' 

The fierce beasts of the woods and wilder- 
nesses 
Track not the steps of him who drinks of 

it; 

For the light breezes, which forever fleet 
Around its margin, heap the sand thereon. 
1818. Rossetti, 1817. 



'HE WANDERS' 

He wanders, like a day-appearing dream, 
Through the dim wildernesses of the 
mind; 
Through desert woods and tracts, which 
seem 
Like ocean, homeless, boundless, uncon- 

fined. 
1821. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed. 

THE DESERTS OF SLEEP 

I WENT into the deserts of dim sleep — 
That world which, like an unknown wil- 
derness. 

Bounds this with its recesses wide and 
deep. 

1820. Rossetti, 1870. 

A DREAM 

Methought I was a billow in the crowd 
Of common men, that stream without a 
shore. 
That ocean which at once is deaf and loud ; 
That I, a man, stood amid many more 
By a wayside which the aspect 

bore 
Of some imperial metropolis, 

Where mighty shapes — pyramid, dome, 

and tower — 
Gleamed like a pile of crags. 

1821. Rossetti, 1870. 

THE HEART'S TOMB 

And where is truth ? On tombs ? for such 
to thee 

Has been m}' heart — and thy dead memory 

Has lain from childhood, many a change- 
ful year, 

Unchangingly preserved and buried there. 

1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, Ist ed. 

HOPE, FEAR, AND DOUBT 

Such hope, as is the sick despair of good, 
Such fear, as is the certainty of ill. 
Such doubt, as is pale Expectation's food 
Turned while she tastes to poison, when 

the will 
Is powerless, and the spirit . . , 

1820. Garnett, 1862. 



490 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



'ALAS! THIS IS NOT WHAT I 
THOUGHT LIFE WAS' 

Mrs. Shelley introduces the fragment thus : 
' That he felt these things [public neglect and 
calumny] deeply cannot be doubted, though 
he armed himself with the consciousness of 
acting from a lofty and heroic sense of right. 
The truth burst from his heart sometimes in 
solitude, and he would write a few unfinished 
verses that showed he felt the sting. Among 
such I find the following.' 

Alas ! this is not what I thought life was. 
I knew that there were crimes and evil 

men, 
Misery and hate; nor did I hope to pass 
Untouched by suffering, through the rugged 

glen. 
In mine own heart I saw as in a glass 
The hearts of others And 

when 
I went among my kind, with triple brass 
Of calm endurance my weak breast I 

armed, 
To bear scorn, fear, and hate, a woful 

mass ! 
1820. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed. 



CROWNED 

Originally published as the conclusion of 
' When soft winds and sunny skies.'' Rossetti 
joins it with Laurel at the end. 

And that I walked thus proudly crowned 

withal 
Is that 't is my distinction ; if I fall, 
I shall not weep out of the vital day. 
To-morrow dust, nor wear a dull decay. 
1821. Mrs. SheUey, 1839, 2d ed. 



'GREAT SPIRIT' 

Forman conjectures that this and the follow- 
ing are addressed to Liberty. 



Great Spirit whom the sea of boundless 
thoujjht 

Nurtures within its unimagined caves, 
In which thou sittest sole, as in my mind, 

Giving a voice to its mysterious waves. 

1821. Rossetti, 1870. 



'O THOU IMMORTAL DEITY' 

THOU immortal deity 

Whose throne is in the depth of human 
thought, 

1 do adjure thy power and thee 

By all that man may be, by all that he is 
not. 
By all that he has been and yet must be ! 
1821. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 2d ed. 



'YE GENTLE VISITATIONS' 

Ye gentle visitations of calm thought. 
Moods like the memories of happier 

earth. 
Which come arrayed in thoughts of little 

worth, 
Like stars in clouds by the weak winds 

enwrought, — 
But that the clouds depart and stars 

remain. 
While they remain, and ye, alas, depart ! 
1819. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed. 



'MY THOUGHTS' 

My thoughts arise and fade in solitude. 
The verse that would invest them melts 

away 
Like moonlight in the heaven of spread- 
ing day: 
How beautiful they were, how firm they 

stood. 
Flecking the starry sky like woven pearl ! 
1817. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, Ist ed. 



HYMN TO MERCURY 



491 



TRANSLATIONS 



The Translations were published partly by 
Shelley, with other poems, partly by Mrs. 
Shelley, and partly by Medwin, Garnett, Ros- 
setti and Forman from MSS. They were 
written from 1818 to 1822. Two pieces, hy- 
pothetically ascribed to Shelley by Forman, 

HYMN TO MERCURY 

FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER 

This remarkable piece of facile rendering- 
from the Homeric Hymn was composed in the 
summer of 1820. Shelley mentions it in a 
letter to Peacock, July 20 : 'I am translating, 
in ottava rima, the Hymn to Mercury of Homer. 
Of course my stanza precludes a literal transla- 
tion. My next effort will be that it should be 
legible — a quality much to be desired in trans- 
lations.' It was published by Mrs. Shelley, 
Posthumous Poems, 1824. 



Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove, 

The Herald-child, king of Arcadia 
And all its pastoral hills, whom, in sweet 
love 
Having been interwoven, modest May 
Bore Heaven's dread Supreme. An antique 
grove 
Shadowed the cavern where the lovers 
lay 
In the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men, 
And white-armed Juno slumbered sweetly 
then. 

II 

Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling, 
And Heaven's tenth moon chronicled 
her relief, 
She gave to light a babe all babes excelling, 

A schemer subtle beyond all belief, 
A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing, 
A night-watching, and door-waylaying 
thief. 
Who 'mongst the Gods was soon about to 

thieve. 
And other glorious actions to achieve. 

Ill 

The babe was born at the first peep of 
day; 
He began playing on the lyre at noon, 



The Dinner Party Anticipated, a paraphrase of 
Horace III. xix., and The Magic Horn from 
Bronzino, are excluded from the text, there 
being no substantial evidence that Shelley 
wrote them. 



And the same evening did he steal away 
Apollo's herds. The fourth day of the 
moon. 
On which him bore the venerable May, 
From her immortal limbs he leaped full 
soon. 
Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep, 
But out to seek Apollo's herds would creep. 

IV 

Out of the lofty cavern wandering 

He found a tortoise, and cried out — * A 
treasure ! ' 

(For Mercury first made the tortoise sing) 
The beast before the portal at his leisure 

The flowery herbage was depasturing. 
Moving his feet in a deliberate measure 

Over the turf. Jove's profitable son 

Eying him laughed, and laughing thus be- 
gun:— 



' A useful godsend are you to me now, 

King of the dance, companion of the feast, 
Lovely in all your nature ! Welcome, you 
Excellent plaything ! Where, sweet 
mountain beast, 
Got you that speckled shell ? Thus much 
I know. 
You must come home with me and be 
my guest; 
You will give joy to me, and I will do 
All that is in my power to honor you. 

VI 

' Better to be at home than out of door. 
So come with me; and though it has been 

said 
That you alive defend from magic power, 

I know you will sing sweetly when you 're 
dead.' 
Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore. 

Lifting it from the grass on which it fed 
And grasping it in his delighted kold, 
His treasured prize into the cavern old. 



492 



TRANSLATIONS 



VII 

Then, scooping with a chisel of gray steel, 
He bored the life and soul out of the 
beast. 
Not swifter a swift thought of woe or 
weal 
Darts through the tumult of a human 
breast 
Which thronging cares annoy — not swifter 
wheel 
The flashes of its torture and unrest 
Out of the dizzy eyes — than Maia's son 
All that he did devise hath featly done. 

VIII 

And through the tortoise's hard stony 
skin 
At proper distances small holes he made. 
And fastened the cut stems of reeds 
within, 
And with a piece of leather overlaid 

The open space and fixed the cubits in, 
Fitting the bridge to both, and stretched 

o'er all 
Symphonious cords of sheep-gut rhythmi- 
cal. 

IX 

When he had wrought the lovely instru- 
ment, 
He tried the chords, and made division 
meet. 
Preluding with the plectrum, and there 
went 
Up from beneath his hand a tum.ttlt sweet 
Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he 
sent 
A strain of unpremeditated wit 
Joyous and wild and wanton — such you 

may 
Hear among revellers on a holiday. 

X 

He sung how Jove and May of the bright 
sandal 
Dallied in love not quite legitimate; 
And his own birth, still scoffing at the 
scandal 
And naming his own name, did celebrate ; 
His mother's cave and servant maids he 
planned all 
In plastic verse, her household stuff and 
state. 
Perennial pot, trippet, and brazen pan, — 
But singing, he conceived another plan. 



XI 

Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh 
meat, 
He in his sacred crib deposited 

The hollow lyre, and from the cavern 
sweet 
Rushed with great leaps up to the moun 
tain's head, 
Revolving in his mind some subtle feat 
Of thievish craft, such as a swindler might 
Devise in the lone season of dun night. 

XII 

Lo ! the great Sun under the ocean's bed 
has 
Driven steeds and chariot. The child 
meanwhile strode 
O'er the Pierian mountains clothed in 
shadows. 
Where the immortal oxen of the God 
Are pastured in the flowering unmown 
meadows 
And safely stalled in a remote abode. 
The archer Argicide, elate and proud. 
Drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud. 

XIII 

He drove them wandering o'er the sandy 
way. 
But, being ever mindful of his craft, 
Backward and forward drove he them 
astray, 
So that the tracks which seemed before, 
were aft; 
His sandals then he threw to the ocean 
spray. 
And for each foot he wrought a kind of 
raft 
Of tamarisk and tamarisk-like sprigs. 
And bound them in a lump with withy 
twigs. 

XIV 

And on his feet he tied these sandals 
light. 
The trail of whose wide leaves might not 
betray 
His track; and then, a self-sufficing 
wight, 
Like a man hastening on some distant way. 
He from Pieria's mountain bent his 
flight; 
But an old man perceived the infant pass 
Down green Onchestus heaped like beds 
with grass. 



HYMN TO MERCURY 



493 



XV 

The old man stood dressing his sunny vine. 
* Halloo ! old fellow with the crooked 
shoulder ! 
You grub those stumps ? before they will 
bear wine 
Methinks even you must grow a little 
older. 
Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine, 
As you would 'scape what might appall a 
bolder: 
Seeing, see not — and hearing, hear not — 

and — 
If you have understanding, understand.' 

XVI 

So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast; 
O'er shadowy mountain and resounding 
dell 
And flower-paven plains great Hermes 
passed; 
Till the black night divine, which favor- 
ing fell 
Around his steps, grew gray, and morning 
fast 
Wakened the world to work, and from 
her cell 
Sea-strewn the Pallantean Moon sublime 
Into her watch-tower just began to climb. 

XVII 

Now to Alpheus he had driven all 

The broad-foreheaded oxen of the Sun; 

They came unwearied to the lofty stall 
And to the water troughs which ever run 

Through the fresh fields; and when with 
rushgrass tall. 
Lotos and all sweet herbage, every one 

Had pastured been, the great God made 
them move 

Towards the stall in a collected drove. 

XVIII 

A mighty pile of wood the God then 
heaped. 
And, having soon conceived the mystery 
Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches 
stripped 
The bark, and rubbed them in his palms; 
on high 
Suddenly forth the burning vapor leaped, 

And the divine child saw delightedly. 
Mercury first found out for human weal 
Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint and 
steel. 



XIX 

And fine dry logs and roots innumerous 
He gathered in a delve upon the 
ground — 
And kindled them — and instantaneous 
The strength of the fierce flame was 
breathed around; 
And, whilst the might of glorious Vulcan 
thus 
Wrapped the great pile with glare and 
roaring sound, 
Hermes dragged forth two heifers, lowing 

loud. 
Close to the fire — such might was in the 
God. 

XX 

And on the earth upon their backs he 

threw 
The panting beasts, and rolled them o'er 

and o'er. 
And bored their lives out. Without more 

ado 
He cut up fat and flesh, and down be- 
fore 
The fire on spits of wood he placed the 

two. 
Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the 

gore 
Pursed in the bowels; and while this was 

done 
He stretched their hides over a craggy 

stone. 

XXI 

We mortals let an ox grow old, and then 

Cut it up after long consideration, — 
But joyous-minded Hermes from the glen 
Drew the fat spoils to the more open 
station 
Of a flat smooth space, and portioned them; 
and when 
He had by lot assigned to each a ration 
Of the twelve Gods, his mind became 

aware 
Of all the joys which in religion are. 

XXII 

For the sweet savor of the roasted meat 
Tempted him though immortal. Nathe- 
less 
He checked his haughty will and did not 
eat, 
Though what it cost him words can 
scarce express, 



494 



TRANSLATIONS 



And every wish to put such morsels sweet 
Down his most sacred throat he did re- 
press ; 
But soon within the lofty portaled stall 
He placed the fat and flesh and bones and 
all. 

XXIII 

And every trace of the fresh butchery 
And cooking the God soon made disap- 
pear, 
As if it all had vanished through the 
sky; 
He burned the hoofs and horns and head 
and hair, — 
The insatiate fire devoured them hungrily; 
And, when he saw that everything was 
clear, 
He quenched the coals, and trampled the 

black dust, 
And in the stream his bloody sandals 
tossed. 

XXIV 

All night he worked in the serene moon- 
shine. 
But when the light of day was spread 
abroad 
He sought his natal mountain-peaks divine. 
On his long wandering neither man nor 
god 
Had met him, since he killed Apollo's 
kine, 
Nor house-dog had barked at him on his 
road; 
Now he obliquely through the key-hole 

passed. 
Like a thin mist or an autumnal blast. 

XXV 

Right through the temple of the spacious 
cave 
He went with soft light feet, as if his 
tread 
Fell not on earth; no sound their falling 
gave; 
Then to his cradle he crept quick, and 
spread 
The swaddling-clothes about him; and the 
knave 
Lay playing with the covering of the 
bed 
With his left hand about his knees — the 

right 
Held his beloved tortoise-lyre tight. 



XXVI 

There he lay innocent as a new-born child, 
As gossips say; but though he was a god, 
The goddess, his fair mother, unbeguiled 

Knew all that he had done being abroad. 
' Whence come you, and from what ad- 
venture wild, 
You cunning rogue, and where have you 
abode 
All the long night, clothed in your impu- 
dence ? 
What have you done since you departed 
hence ? 

XXVII 

* Apollo soon will pass within this gate 

And bind your tender body in a chain 
Inextricably tight, and fast as fate, 

Unless you can delude the God again. 
Even when within his arms. Ah, runa<> 
gate ! 
A pretty torment both for gods and men 
Your father made when he made you ! * — 

' Dear mother,' 
Replied sly Hermes, * wherefore scold and 
bother ? 

XXVIII 

* As if I were like other babes as old, 

And understood nothing of what is what. 
And cared at all to hear my mother scold. 
I in my subtle brain a scheme have 
got, 
Which whilst the sacred stars round 
Heaven are rolled 
Will profit you and me; nor shall our 
lot 
Be as you counsel, without gifts or food. 
To spend our lives in this obscure abode. 

XXIX 

' But we will leave this shadow-peopled 
cave 
And live among the Gods, and pass each 
day 
In high communion, sharing what they 
have 
Of profuse wealth and unexhausted prey; 
And from the portion which my father 
gave 
To Phcebus, I will snatch my share 
away ; 
Which if my father will not, natheless I, 
Who am the king of robbers, can but 
try. 



HYMN TO MERCURY 



495 



XXX 

* And, if Latona's son should find me out, 
I '11 countermine him by a deeper plan; 
I '11 pierce the Pythian temple-walls, though 
stout, 
And sack the fane of everything I can — 
Caldrons and tripods of great worth no 
doubt, 
Each golden cup and polished brazen 
pan, 
All the wrought tapestries and garments 

gay.' 

So they together talked. Meanwhile the 
Day, 

XXXI 

Ethereal born, arose out of the flood 

Of flowing Ocean, bearing light to men. 
Apollo passed toward the sacred wood. 
Which from the inmost depths of its 
green glen 
Echoes the voice of Neptune; and there 
stood, 
On the same spot in green Onchestus 
then, 
That same old animal, the vine-dresser. 
Who was employed hedging his vineyard 
there. 

XXXII 

Latona's glorious Son began : — 'I pray 

Tell, ancient hedger of Onchestus green. 
Whether a drove of kine has passed this 
way, 
All heifers with crooked horns ? for they 
have been 
Stolen from the herd in high Pieria, 

Where a black bull was fed apart, be- 
tween 
Two woody mountains in a neighboring 

glen, 
And four fierce dogs watched there, unani- 
mous as men. 

XXXIII 

* And what is strange, the author of this 
theft 
Has stolen the fatted heifers every one. 
But the four dogs and the black bull are 
left. 
Stolen they were last night at set of sun, 
Of their soft beds and their sweet food be- 
reft. 
Kow tell me, man born «re the world 
begun, 



Have you seen any one pass with the 

cows ? ' 
To whom the man of overhanging brows: 

XXXIV 

' My friend, it would require no common 
skill 
Justly to speak of everything I see; 
On various purposes of good or ill 

Many pass by my vineyard, — and to 
me 
'T is difficult to know the invisible 

Thoughts, which in all those many minds 
may be. 
Thus much alone I certainly can say, 
I tilled these vines till the decline of day, 

XXXV 

' And then I thought I saw, but dare not 
speak 
With certainty of such a wondrous thing, 
A child, who could not have been born a 
week. 
Those fair-horned cattle closely foUow- 
. ing, 
And in his hand he held a polished stick; 

And, as on purpose, he walked wavering 
From one side to the other of the road. 
And with his face opposed the steps he 
trod.' 

XXXVI 

Apollo hearing this, passed quickly on — 
No winged omen could have shown more 
clear 
That the deceiver was his father's son. 

So the God wraps a purple atmosphere 
Around his shoulders, and like fire is gone 
To famous Pylos, seeking his kine there. 
And found their track and his, yet hardly 

cold, 
And cried — ' What wonder do mine eyes 
behold ! 

XXXVII 

* Here are the footsteps of the horned herd 
Turned back towards their fields of as- 
phodel; 

But these are not the tracks of beast or 
bird. 
Gray wolf, or bear, or lion of the dell. 

Or man^d Centaur — sand was never stirred 
By man or woman thus ! Inexplicable ! 

Who with unwearied feet could e'er impress 

The sand with such enormous vestiges ? 



496 



TRANSLATIONS 



XXXVIII 

* That was most strange — but this is 
stranger still ! ' 
Thus having said, Phcebus impetuously 
Sought high Cyllene's forest-cintured hill, 
And the deep cavern where dark shad- 
ows lie, 
And where the ambrosial nymph with 
happy will 
Bore the Saturnian's love-child, Mercury; 
And a delightful odor from the dew 
Of the hill pastures, at his coming, flew. 

XXXIX 

And Phcebus stooped under the craggy 
roof 
Arched over the dark cavern. Maia's 
child 
Perceived that he came angry, far aloof, 
About the cows of which he had been 
beguiled; 
And over him the fine and fragrant woof 
Of his ambrosial swaddling clothes he 
piled. 
As among firebrands lies a burning spark 
Covered, beneath the ashes cold and dark. 

XL 

There, like an infant who had sucked his 
fill 
And now was newly washed, and put to 
bed. 
Awake, but courting sleep with weary 
will. 
And gathered in a lump, hands, feet, and 
head. 
He lay, and his beloved tortoise still 

He grasped, and held under his shoulder- 
blade. 
Phcebus the lovely mountain-goddess knew. 
Not less her subtle, swindling baby, who 

XLI 

Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round every 
crook 
Of the ample cavern for his kine Apollo 
Looked sharp; and when he saw them not, 
he took 
The glittering key, and opened three 
great hollow 
Recesses in the rock, where many a nook 
Was filled with the sweet food immortals 
swallow; 
And mighty heaps of silver and of gold 
Were piled within — a wonder to behold ! 



XLII 

And white and silver robes, all overwrought 
With cunning workmanship of tracery 
sweet; 

Except among the Gods there can be nought 
In the wide world to be compared with it. 

Latona's offspring, after having sought 
His herds in every corner, thus did greet 

Great Hermes : — * Little cradled rogue, 
declare 

Of my illustrious heifers, where they are ! 

XLIII 

' Speak quickly ! or a quarrel between us 
Must rise, and the event will be that I 

Shall hurl you into dismal Tartarus, 
In fiery gloom to dwell eternally; 

Nor shall your father nor your mother loose 
The bars of that black dungeon; utterly 

You shall be cast out from the light of day, 

To rule the ghosts of men, unblessed as 
they.' 

XLIV 

To whom thus Hermes slyly answered: — 
'Son 
Of great Latona, what a speech is this ! 
Why come you here to ask me what is done 
With the wild oxen which it seems you 
miss ? 
I have not seen them, nor from any one 

Have heard a word of the whole business; 
If you should promise an immense reward, 
I could not tell more than you now have 
heard. 

XLV 

* An ox-stealer should be both tall and 

strong. 
And I am but a little new-born thing, 
Who, yet at least, can think of nothing 
wrong. 
My business is to suck, and sleep, and 
fling 
The cradle-clothes about me all day long, — 
Or half asleep, hear my sweet mother 
sing, 
And to be washed in water clean and warm, 
And hushed and kissed and kept secure 
from harm. 

XLVI 

* Oh, let not e'er this quarrel be averred / 

The astounded Gods would laugh at you, 
if e'er 



HYMN TO MERCURY 



491 



ifou should allege a story so absurd 

As that a new-born infant forth could 
fare 
Out of his home after a savage herd. 

I was born yesterday — my small feet 
are 
Too tender for the roads so hard and rough. 
And if you think that this is not enough, 

XLVII 

* I swear a great oath, by my father's head, 
That I stole not your cows, and that I 
know 

Of no one else, who might, or could, or did. 
Whatever things cows are I do not know, 

For I have only heard the name.' This said, 
He winked as fast as could be, and his 
brow 

Was wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave he. 

Like one who hears some strange absurdity. 

XLVIII 

Apollo gently smiled and said : — ' Aye, 
aye, — 
You cunning little rascal, you will bore 
Many a rich man's house, and your array 
Of thieves will lay their siege before his 
door, 
Silent as night, in night; and many a day 
In the wild glens rough shepherds will 
deplore 
That you or yours, having an appetite, 
Met with their cattle, comrade of the night ! 

XLIX 

'And this among the Gods shall be your 
gift. 
To be considered as the lord of those 
Who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, and 
shop-lift. 
But now if you would not your last sleep 
doze. 
Crawl out ! ' — Thus saying, Phoebus did 
uplift 
The subtle infant in his swaddling clothes. 
And in his arms, according to his wont, 
A scheme devised the illustrious Argiphont. 



And sneezed and shuddered. Phcebus on 
the grass 
Him threw ; and whilst all that he had 
designed 



He did perform — eager although to pass, 

Apollo darted from his mighty mind 
Towards the subtle babe the following scoff: 
' Do not imagine this will get you off, 

LI 

* You little swaddled child of Jove and 
May! ' 
And seized him : — * By this omen I shall 
trace 
My noble herds, and you shall lead the 
way.' 
Cyllenian Hermes from the grassy place, 
Like one in earnest haste to get away, 
Rose, and with hands lifted towards his 
face, 
Round both his ears up from his shoulders 

drew 
His swaddling clothes, and — ' What mean 
you to do 

Lll 

' With me, you unkind God ? ' — said Mer- 
cury: 
* Is it about these cows you tease me 
so? 
I wish the race of cows were perished ! — I 
Stole not your cows — I do not even know 
What things cows are, Alas ! I well may 
sigh 
That since I came into this world of woe 
I should have ever heard the name of one — 
But I appeal to the Saturnian's throne.' 

LIII 

Thus Phoebus and the vagrant Mercury 
Talked without coming to an explanation, 

With adverse purpose. As for Phoebus, he 
Sought not revenge, but only informa- 
tion. 

And Hermes tried with lies and roguery 
To cheat Apollo. But when no evasion 

Served — for the cunning one his match 
had found — 

He paced on first over the sandy ground. 

LIV 

He of the Silver Bow the child of Jove 
Followed behind, till to their heavenly Sire 

Came both his children, beautiful as Love, 
And from his equal balance did require 

A judgment in the cause wherein thej? 
strove. 
O'er odorous Olympus and its snows 
A murmuring tumult as they came arose, — 



498 



TRANSLATIONS 



LV 

And from the folded depths of the great 
Hill, 

While Hermes and Apollo reverent stood 
Before Jove's throne, the indestructible 

Immortals rushed in mighty multitude; 
And whilst their seats in order due they fill, 

The lofty Thunderer in a careless mood 
To Phoebus said : — ' Whence drive you this 

sweet prey. 
This herald-baby, born but yesterday ? — 

LVI 

* A most important subject, trifler, this 

To lay before the Gods ! ' — ' Nay, fa- 
ther, nay. 
When you have understood the business, 

Say not that I alone am fond of prey, 
I found this little boy in a recass 

Under Cyllene's mountains far away — 
A manifest and most apparent thief, 
A scandal-monger beyond all belief. 

LVII 

* I never saw his like either in heaven 

Or upon earth for knavery or craft. 
Out of the field my cattle yester-even. 
By the low shore on which the loud sea 
laughed. 
He right down to the river-ford had driven ; 
And mere astonishment would make you 
daft 
To see the double kind of footsteps strange 
He has impressed wherever he did range. 

LVIIl 

* The cattle's track on the black dust full 

well 
Is evident, as if they went towards 
The place from which they came — that 
asphodel 
Meadow, in which I feed my many herds; 
His steps were most incomprehensible. 

I know not how I can describe in words 
Those tracks; he could have gone along 

the sands 
Neither upon his feet nor on his hands; 

LIX 

* He must have had some other stranger 

mode 
Of moving on. Those vestiges immense. 
Far as I traced them on the sandy road. 
Seemed like the trail of oak-toppings; 

but thence 



No mark or track denoting where they 

trod 
The hard ground gave. But, working at 

his fence, 
A mortal hedger saw him as he passed 
To Pylos, with the cows, in fiery haste. 

LX 

* I found that in the dark he quietly 

Had sacrificed some cows, and before 
light 
Had thrown the ashes all dispersedly 
About the road; then, still as gloomy 
night. 
Had crept into his cradle, either eye 

Rubbing, and cogitating some new 
sleight. 
No eagle could have seen him as he lay 
Hid in his cavern from the peering day. 

LXI 

' I taxed him with the fact, when he averred 

Most solemnly that he did neither see 
Nor even had in any manner heard 

Of my lost cows, whatever things cows 

be; 

Nor could he tell, though offered a reward. 

Not even who could tell of them to me.' 

So speaking, Phoebus sate; and Hermes 

then 
Addressed the Supreme Lord of Gods and 
Men: 

LXII 

* Great Father, you know clearly before- 

hand 
That all which I shall say to you is 
sooth; 
I am a most veracious person, and 

Totally unacquainted with untruth. 
At sunrise Phoebus came, but with no band 
Of Gods to bear him witness, in great 
wrath. 
To my abode, seeking his heifers there, 
And saying that I must show him whero 
they are, 

LXIII 

* Or he would hurl me down the dark 

abyss. 

I know that every Apollonian limb 
Is clothed with speed and might and man- 
liness. 

As a green bank with flowers — but, un- 
like him, 



HYMN TO MERCURY 



499 



I was born yesterday, and you may guess 
He well knew this when he indulged the 
whim 
Of bullying a poor little new-born thing 
That slept, and never thought of cow-driv- 
ing. 

LXIV 

* Am I like a strong fellow who steals kine ? 
Believe me, dearest Father — such you 
are — 
This driving of the herds is none of mine; 

Across my threshold did I wander ne'er, 
So may I thrive ! I reverence the divine 
Sun and the Gods, and I love you, and 
care 
Even for this hard accuser — who must 

know 
I am as innocent as they or you. 

LXV 

' I swear by these most gloriously-wrought 
portals 
(It is, you will allow, an oath of might) 
Through which the multitude of the Im- 
mortals 
Pass and repass forever, day and night, 
Devising schemes for the affairs of mor- 
tals — 
That I am guiltless; and I will requite, 
Although mine enemy be great and strong, 
His cruel threat — do thou defend the 



young 



LXVI 



So speaking, the Cyllenian Argiphont 
Winked, as if now his adversary was 
fitted ; 

And Jupiter according to his wont 

Laughed heartily to hear the subtle- 
witted 

Infant give such a plausible account. 
And every word a lie. But he remitted 

Judgment at present, and his exhortation 

Was, to compose the affair by arbitration. 

LXVII 

And they by mighty Jupiter were bidden 
To go forth with a single purpose both. 
Neither the other chiding nor yet chidden; 

And Mercury with innocence and truth 
To lead the way, and show where he had 
hidden 
The mighty heifers. Hermes, nothing 
loath, 



Obeyed the -^gis-bearer's will — for he 
Is able to persuade all easily. 

LXVIII 

These lovely children of Heaven's highest 
Lord 
Hastened to Pylos and the pastures wide 
And lofty stalls by the Alphean ford, 
Where wealth in the mute night is multi- 
plied 
With silent growth. Whilst Hermes drove 
the herd 
Out of the stony cavern, Phoebus spied 
The hides of those the little babe had slain, 
Stretched on the precipice above the plain. 

LXIX 

' How was it possible,' then Phcebus said, 
* That you, a little child, born yesterday, 

A thing on mother's milk and kisses fed. 
Could two prodigious heifers ever flay ? 

Even I myself may well hereafter dread 
Your prowess, offspring of Cyllenian 
May, 

When you grow strong and tall.' He 
spoke, and bound 

Stiff withy bands the infant's wrists around. 

LXX 

He might as well have bound the oxen 
wild; 
The withy bands, though starkly inter- 
knit. 
Fell at the feet of the immortal child, 
Loosened by some device of his quick 
wit. 
Phcfibus perceived himself again beguiled, 
And stared, while Hermes sought some 
hole or pit, 
Looking askance and winking fast as 

tnought 
Where he might hide himself and not be 
caught. 

LXXI 

Sudden he changed his plan, and with 
strange skill 
Subdued the strong Latonian by the 
might 
Of winning music to his mightier will; 
His left hand held the lyre, and in his 
right 
The plectrum struck the chords; uncon- 
querable 
Up from beneath his hand in circling flight 



500 



TRANSLATIONS 



The gathering music rose — and sweet as 

Love 
The penetrating notes did live and move 

LXXII 

Within the heart of great Apollo. He 
Listened with all his soul, and laughed 
for pleasure. 
Close to his side stood harping fearlessly 

The unabashM boy; and to the measure 
Of the sweet lyre there followed loud and 
free 
His joyous voice; for he unlocked the 
treasure 
Of his deep song, illustrating the birth 
Of the bright Gods and the dark desert 
Earth ; 

LXXIII 

And how to the Immortals every one 
A portion was assigned of all that is ; 

But chief Mnemosyne did Maia's son 
Clothe in the light of his loud melodies ; 

And, as each God was born or had begun, 
He in their order due and fit degrees 

Sung of his birth and being — and did move 

Apollo to unutterable love. 

LXXIV 

These words were winged with his swift 
delight: 
' You heifer-stealing schemer, well do 
you 
Deserve that fifty oxen should requite 
Such minstrelsies as I have heard even 
now. 
Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight, 
One of your secrets I would gladly 
know, 
Whether the glorious power you now show 

forth 
Was folded up within you at your birth, 

LXXV 

' Or whether mortal taught or God inspired 

The power of unpremeditated song ? 
Many divinest sounds have I admired, 
The Olympian Gods and mortal men 
among; 
But such a strain of wondrous, strange, 
untired. 
And soul-awakening music, sweet and 
strong, 
Yet did I never hear except from thee, 
Offspring of May, impostor Mercury ! 



LXXVI 

' What Muse, what skill, what unimagined 
use, 
What exercise of subtlest art, has given 
Thy songs such power ? — for those who 
hear may choose 
From three, the choicest of the gifts of 
Heaven, 
Delight, and love, and sleep — sweet sleep 
whose dews 
Are sweeter than the balmy tears of even. 
And I, who speak this praise, am that 

Apollo 
Whom the Olympian Muses ever follow; 

LXXVII 

' And their delight is dance, and the blithe 
noise 

Of song and overflowing poesy; 
And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice 

Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrill- 
ingly; 
But never did my inmost soul rejoice 

In this dear work of youthful revelry, 
As now. I wonder at thee, son of Jove; 
Thy harpings and thy song are soft as love, 

LXXVIII 

* Now since thou hast, although so very 
small, 
Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear — 
And let this cornel javelin, keen and tall, 
Witness between us what I promise 
here — 
That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall, 
Honored and mighty, with thy mother 
dear, 
And many glorious gifts in joy will give 

thee. 
And even at the end will ne'er deceive 
thee.' 

LXXIX 

To whom thus Mercury with prudent 
speech : 
' Wisely hast thou inquired of my skill ; 
I envy thee no thing I know to teach 
Even this day; for both in word and 
will 
I would be gentle with thee; thou canst 
reach 
All things in thy wise spirit, and thy sill 
Is highest in heaven among the sons of 

Jove, 
Who loves thee in the fulness of his love. 



HYMN TO MERCURY 



501 



LXXX 

* The Counsellor Supreme has given to 

thee 
Divinest gifts, out of the amplitude 
Of his profuse, exhaustless treasury; 

By thee, 't is said, the depths are under- 
stood 
Of his far voice ; by thee the mystery 
Of all oracular fates, — and the dread 
mood 
Of the diviner is breathed up; even I — 
A child — perceive thy might and maj- 
esty. 

LXXXI 

' Thou canst seek out and compass all that 
wit 
Can find or teach. Yet since thou wilt, 
come take 
The lyre — be mine the glory giving it — 
Strike the sweet chords, and sing aloud, 
and wake 
Thy joyous pleasure out of many a fit 
Of trancM sound — and with fleet fin- 
gers make 
Thy liquid-voiced comrade talk with 

thee, — 
It can talk measured music eloquently. 

LXXXII 

* Then bear it boldly to the revel loud, 

Love-wakening dance, or feast of solemn 
state, 
A joy by night or day; for those endowed 

With art and wisdom who interrogate 
It teaches, babbling in delightful mood 
All things which make the spirit most 
elate. 
Soothing the mind with sweet familiar 

play. 
Chasing the heavy shadows of dismay. 

LXXXIII 

* To those who are unskilled in its sweet 

tongue. 
Though they should question most im- 
petuously 
Its hidden soul, it gossips something 
wrong — 
Some senseless and impertinent reply. 
But thou who art as wise as thou art 
strong 
Canst compass all that thou desirest. I 
Present thee with this music-flowing shell. 
Knowing thou canst interrogate it well. 



LXXXIV 

* And let us two henceforth together feed 
On this green mountain slope and pas- 
toral plain. 
The herds in litigation. They will breed 

Quickly enough to recompense our pain, 

If to the bulls and cows we take good heed; 

And thou, though somewhat over fond 

of gain. 

Grudge me not half the profit.' Having 

spoke, 
The shell he proffered, and Apollo took; 

LXXXV 

And gave him in return the glittering lash, 
Installing him as herdsman; from the 
look 
Of Mercury then laughed a joyous flash. 
And then Apollo with the plectrum 
strook 
The chords, and from beneath his hands a 
crash 
Of mighty sounds rushed up, whose 
music shook 
The soul with sweetness, and like an adept 
His sweeter voice a just accordance kept. 

LXXXVI 

The herd went wandering o'er the divine 
mead. 
Whilst these most beautiful Sons of 
Jupiter 
Won their swift way up to the snowy head 

Of white Olympus, with the joyous lyre 
Soothing their journey; and their father 
dread 
Gathered them both into familiar 
Affection sweet, — and then, and now, 

and ever, 
Hermes must love Him of the Golden 
Quiver, 

LXXXVII 

To whom he gave the lyre that sweetly 
sounded, 
Which skilfully he held and played 
thereon. 
He piped the while, and far and wide re- 
bounded 
The echo of his pipings, — every one 
Of the Olympians sat with joy astounded ; 

While he conceived another piece of fun. 
One of his old tricks — which the God of Day 
Perceiving, said: — 'I fear thee, Son of 
May; — 



502 



TRANSLATIONS 



LXXXVIII 

' I fear thee and thy sly chameleon spirit, 
Lest thou shouldst steal my lyre and 
crooked bow; 
This glory and power thou dost from Jove 
inherit, 
To teach all craft upon the earth below; 
Thieves love and worship thee — it is thy 
merit 
To make all mortal business ebb and flow 
By roguery. Now, Hermes, if you dare 
By sacred Styx a mighty oath to swear 

LXXXIX 

* That you will never rob me, you will do 

A thing extremely pleasing to my heart.' 
Then Mercury sware by the Stygian dew, 
That he would never steal his bow or 
dart, 
Or lay his hands on what to him was due. 
Or ever would employ his powerful art 
Against his Pythian fane. Then Phoebns 

swore 
There was no God or man whom he loved 
more. 

xc 

* And I will give thee as a good-will token. 

The beautiful wand of wealth and happi- 
ness; 
A perfect three-leaved rod of gold un- 
broken, 
Whose magic will thy footsteps ever 
bless ; 
And whatsoever by Jove's voice is spoken 

Of earthly or divine from its recess. 
It, like a loving soul, to thee will speak, — 
And more than this, do thou forbear to 
seek. 

xci 

* For, dearest child, the divinations high 

Which thou requirest, 't is unlawful ever 
That thou or any other deity 

Should understand — and vain were the 
endeavor; 
For they are hidden in Jove's mind, and I 
In trust of them have sworn that I would 
never 
Betray the counsels of Jove's inmost will 
To any God — the oath was terrible. 

XCII 
Then, golden-wanded brother, ask me not 
To speak the fates by Jupiter designed; 



But be it mine to tell their various lot 
To the unnumbered tribes of human- 
kind. 

Let good to these and ill to those be 
wrought 
As I dispense. But he, who comes con- 
signed 

By voice and wings of perfect augury 

To my great shrine, shall find avail in 
me. 

XCIII 

' Him will I not deceive, but will assist; 
But he who comes relying on such 
birds 
As chatter vainly, who would strain and 
twist 
The purpose of the Gods with idle words, 
And deems their knowledge light, he shall 
have missed 
His road — whilst I among my other 
hoards 
His gifts deposit. Yet, O son of May, 
I have another wondrous thing to say. 

XCIV 
* There are three Fates, three virgin Sisters, 
who. 
Rejoicing in their wind-outspeeding 
wings, 
Their heads with flour snowed over white 
and new. 
Sit in a vale round which Parnassus 
flings 
Its circling skirts; from these I have 
learned true 
Vaticinations of remotest things. 
My father cared not. Whilst they search 

out dooms. 
They sit apart and feed on honeycombs. 

XCV 

' They, having eaten the fresh honey, 
grow 
Drunk with divine enthusiasm, and utter 
With earnest willingness the truth they 
know ; 
But if deprived of that sweet food, they 
mutter 
All plausible delusions. These to you 
I give; if you inquire, they will not 
stutter. 
Delight your own soul with them. Any 

man 
You would instruct may profit if he can. 



HOMER'S HYMN TO VENUS 



503 



XCVI 

*Take these and the fierce oxen, Maia's 
child; 
O'er many a horse and toil-enduring 
mule, 
O'er jagged-jaw^d lions, and the wild 
White-tusk^d boars, o'er all, by field or 
pool. 
Of cattle which the mighty Mother mild 

Nourishes in her bosom, thou shalt rule; 
Thou dost alone the veil from death uplift; 
Thou givest not — yet this is a great gift.' 

XCVII 

Thus King Apollo loved the child of May 
In truth, and Jove covered their love 
with joy. 
Hermes with Gods and men even from that 
day 
Mingled, and wrought the latter much 
annoy. 
And little profit, going far astray 

Through the dun night. Farewell, de- 
lightful Boy, 
Of Jove and Maia sprung, — never by me. 
Nor thou, nor other songs, shall unremem- 
bered be. 



HOMER'S HYMN TO VENUS 

This fragment was written in 1818, and pub- 
lished by Garnett, 1862. 

[V. 1-55, with some omissions.] 

Muse, sing the deeds of golden Aphrodite, 
Who wakens with her smile the lulled 

delight 
Of sweet desire, taming the eternal kings 
Of Heaven, and men, and all the living 

things 
That fleet along the air, or whom the sea. 
Or earth, with her maternal ministry, 
Nourish innumerable, thy delight 
All seek O crowned Aphrodite ! 

Three spirits canst thou not deceive or 

quell, 
Minerva, child of Jove, who loves too well 
Fierce war and mingling combat, and the 

fame 
Of glorious deeds, to heed thy gentle flame. 
Diana, golden-shafted queen. 

Is tamed not by thy smiles; the shadows 

green 
Of the wild woods, the bow, the 



And piercing cries amid the swift pursuit 
Of beasts among waste mountains, — such 

delight 
Is hers, and men who know and do the 

right. 
Nor Saturn's first-born daughter, Vesta 

chaste. 
Whom Neptune and Apollo wooed the last, 
Such was the will of segis-bearing Jove; 
But sternly she refused the ills of Love, 
And by her mighty father's head she swore 
An oath not unperformed, that evermore 
A virgin she would live 'mid deities 
Divine; her father, for such gentle ties 
Renounced, gave glorious gifts; thus in his 

hall 
She sits and feeds luxuriously. O'er all 
In every fane, her honors first arise 
From men — the eldest of Divinities. 

These spirits she persuades not, nor de- 
ceives. 

But none beside escape, so well she weaves 

Her imseen toils; nor mortal men, nor gods 

Who live secure m their unseen abodes. 

She won the soul of him whose fierce de- 
light 

Is thunder — first in glory and in might. 

And, as she willed, his mighty mind deceiv- 
ing, 

With mortal limbs his deathless limbs in- 
weaving. 

Concealed him from his spouse and sister 
fair, 

Whom to wise Saturn ancient Rhea bare, 

but in return, 
In Venus Jove did soft desire awaken. 
That, by her own enchantments overtaken. 
She might, no ^^ore from human union 

free. 
Burn for a nursling of mortality. 
For once, amid the assembled Deities, 
The laughter-loving Venus from her eyes 
Shot forth the light of a soft starlight 

smile. 
And boasting said, that she, secure the 

while. 
Could bring at will to the assembled gods 
The mortal tenants of earth's dark abodes, 
And mortal offspring from a deathless stem 
She could produce in scorn and spite of 

them. 
Therefore he poured desire into her breast 
Of young Anchises, 



504 



TRANSLATIONS 



Feeding his herds among the mossy foun- 
tains 

Of the wide Ida's many-folded mountains, 

Whom Venus saw, and loved, and the love 
clung 

Like wasting fire her senses wild among. 

HOMER'S HYMN TO CASTOR 
AND POLLUX 

This and the remaining Homeric Hymns 
were writtett in 1818, and published by Mrs, 
Shelley in her second collected edition, 1839. 
She writes that they ' may be considered as 
having received the author's ultimate correc- 
tions.' 

Ye wild-eyed Muses, sing the Twins of 

Jove, 
Whom the fair-ankled Leda, mixed in love 
With mighty Saturn's heaven - obscuring 

Child, 
Du Taygetus, that lofty mountain wild. 
Brought forth in joy; mild Pollux void of 

blame. 
And steed-subduing Castor, heirs of fame. 
These are the Powers who earth-born mor- 
tals save 
And ships, whose flight is swift along the 

wave. 
When wintry tempests o'er the savage sea 
Are raging, and the sailors tremblingly 
Call on the Twins of Jove with prayer and 

vow. 
Gathered in fear upon the lofty prow. 
And sacrifice with snow-white lambs, — the 

wind 
And the huge billow bursting close behind 
Even then beneath the weltering waters 

bear 
The staggering ship, — they suddenly ap- 
pear. 
On yellow wings rushing athwart the sky, 
And lull the blasts in mute tranquillity. 
And strew the waves on the white ocean's 

bed, 
Fair omen of the voyage; from toil and 

dread. 
The sailors rest, rejoicing in the sight. 
And plough the quiet sea in safe delight. 

HOMER'S HYMN TO MINERVA 

I SING the glorious Power with azure eyes, 
Athenian Pallas, tameless, chaste, and wise. 



Tritogenia, town-preserving maid. 
Revered and mighty; from his awful head 
Whom Jove brought forth, in warlike 

armor dressed. 
Golden, all radiant ! wonder strange pos- 
sessed 
The everlasting Gods that shape to see, 
Shaking a javelin keen, impetuously 
Rush from the crest of ^gis-bearing Jove ; 
Fearfidly Heaven was shaken, and did 

move 
Beneath the might of the Cerulean-eyed; 
Earth dreadfully resounded, far and wide; 
And, lifted from its depths, the sea swelled 

high 
In purple billows, the tide suddenly 
Stood still, and great Hyperion's son long 

time 
Checked his swift steeds, till where she 

stood sublime, 
Pallas from her immortal shoulders threw 
The arms divine; wise Jove rejoiced to 

view. 
Child of the ^gis-bearer, hail to thee. 
Nor thine nor other's praise shall unre- 

membered be. 

HOMER'S HYMN TO THE SUN 

Offspring of Jove, Calliope, once more 
To the bright Sun thy hymn of music pour. 
Whom to the child of star-clad Heaven and 

Earth 
Euryphaessa, large-eyed nymph, brought 

forth ; 
Euryphaessa, the famed sister fair 
Of great Hyperion, who to him did bear 
A race of loveliest children; the young 

Morn, 
Whose arms are like twin roses newly born, 
The fair-haired Moon, and the immortal 

Sun, 
Who borne by heavenly steeds his race 

doth run 
Unconquerably, illuming the abodes 
Of mortal men and the eternal Gods. 

Fiercely look forth his awe-inspiring eyes 
Beneath his golden helmet, whence arise 
And are shot forth afar clear beams of light; 
His countenance with radiant glory bright 
Beneath his graceful locks far shines 

around, 
And the light vest with which his L'mbs 

are bound. 



HOMER'S HYMN TO THE EARTH, MOTHER OF ALL 505 



Of woof ethereal delicately twined, 
Glows in the stream of the uplifting wind. 
His rapid steeds soon bear him to the west, 
Where their steep flight his hands divine 

arrest, 
And the fleet car with yoke of gold, which 

he 
Sends from bright heaven beneath the 

shadowy sea. 



HOMER'S HYMN TO THE MOON 

Daughters of Jove, whose voice is melody. 
Muses, who know and rule all minstrelsy, 
Sing the wide-winged Moon ! Around the 

earth. 
From her immortal head in Heaven shot 

forth, 
Far light is scattered — boundless glory 

springs; 
Where'er she spreads her many-beaming 

wings, 
The lampless air glows round her golden 

crown. 

But when the Moon divine from Heaven 

is gone 
Under the sea, her beams within abide, 
Till, bathing her bright limbs in Ocean's 

tide. 
Clothing her form in garments glittering 

far. 
And having yoked to her immortal car 
The beam-invested steeds whose necks on 

high 
Curve back, she drives to a remoter sky 
A western Crescent, borne impetuously. 
Then is made full the circle of her light, 
And as she grows, her beams more bright 

and bright 
Are poured from Heaven, where she is 

hovering then, 
A wonder and a sign to mortal men. 

The Son of Saturn with this glorious 
Power 
Mingled in love and sleep, to whom she 

bore, 
Pandeia, a bright maid of beauty rare 
Among the Gods whose lives eternal are. 

Hail Queen, great Moon, white-armed 
Divinity, 
Fair-haired and favorable ! thus with thee, 



My song beginning, by its music sweet 
Shall make immortal many a glorious feat 
Of demigods, — with lovely lips, so well 
Which minstrels, servants of the Muses, 
tell. 



HOMER'S HYMN TO THE EARTH, 
MOTHER OF ALL 

O UNIVERSAL Mother, who dost keep 
From everlasting thy foundations deep, 
Eldest of things, Great Earth, I sing of 

thee! 
All shapes that have their dwelling in the 

sea. 
All things that fly, or on the ground divine 
Live, move, and there are nourished — 

these are thine; 
These from thy wealth thou dost sustain; 

from thee 
Fair babes are born, and fruits on every 

tree 
Hang ripe and large, revered Divinity ! 

The life of mortal men beneath thy sway 
Is held; thy power both gives and takes 

away. 
Happy are they whom thy mild favors 

nourish ; 
All things unstinted round them grow and 

flourish. 
For them endures the life-sustaining field 
Its load of harvest, and their cattle yield 
Large increase, and their house with wealth 

is filled. 
Such honored dwell in cities fair and free, 
The homes of lovely women, prosperously; 
Their sons exult in youth's new budding 

gladness, 
And their fresh daughters, free from care 

or sadness. 
With bloom-inwoven dance and happy song. 
On the soft flowers the meadow-grass 

among. 
Leap round them sporting; such delights 

by thee 
Are given, rich Power, revered Divinity. 

Mother of gods, thou wife of starry 

Heaven, 
Farewell ! be thou propitious, and be given 
A happy life for this brief melody, 
Nor thou nor other songs shall unremem- 

bered be. 



5o6 



TRANSLATIONS 



THE CYCLOPS; 
A SATYRIC DRAMA 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF EU- 
RIPIDES 

The Cyclops was translated in 1819, and 
published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 
1824. Shelley read it to Williams, November 
5, 1821. He writes of it and the whole sub- 
ject of translation to Hunt, November, 1819 : 
' With respect to translation, even /will not be 
seduced by it ; although the Greek plays, and 
some of the ideal dramas of Calderon (with 
which I have lately, and with inexpressible 
wonder and delight, become acquainted), are 
perpetually tempting me to throw over their 
perfect and glowing forms the gray veil of my 
own words. And you know me too well to sus- 
pect that I refrain from a belief that what I 
could substitute for them would deserve the 
regret which yours would, if suppressed. I 
have confidence in my moral sense alone ; but 
that is a kind of originality. I have only trans- 
lated The Cyclops of Euripides, when I could 
absolutely do nothing else, and the Symposium 
of Plato, which is the delight and astonishment 
of all who read it, — I mean the original.' 



SHiENtrS 

Ulysses 



Chorus of Satyrs 
The Cyclops 



SILENUS 



O Bacchus, what a world of toil, both now 
And ere these limbs were overworn with age, 
Have I endured for thee ! First, when thou 

fled'st 
The mountain-nymphs who nursed thee, 

driven afar 
By the strange madness Juno sent upon 

thee; 
Then in the battle of the sons of Earth, 
When I stood foot by foot close to thy side, 
No unpropitious fellow-combatant, 
And, driving through his shield my winged 

spear. 
Slew vast Enceladus. Consider now. 
Is it a dream of which I speak to thee ? 
By Jove it is not, for you have the trophies ! 
And now I suffer more than all before. 
For when I heard that Juno had devised 
A tedious voyage for you, I put to sea 
With all my children quaint in search of 

you. 
And I myself stood on the beaked prow 
And fixed the naked mast; and all my boys 



Leaning upon their oars, with splash and 

strain 
Made white with foam the green and pur- 
ple sea. 
And so we sought you, king. We were 

sailing 
Near Malea, when an eastern wind arose, 
And drove us to this wild -^tnean rock; 
The one-eyed children of the Ocean God, 
The man-destroying Cyclopses inhabit, 
On this wild shore, their soiltary caves. 
And one of these, named Polypheme, has 

caught us 
To be his slaves; and so, for all delight 
Of Bacchic sports, sweet dance and melody, 
We keep this lawless giant's wandering 

flocks. 
My sons indeed, on far declivities, 
Young things themselves, tend on the 

youngling sheep, 
But I remain to fill the water casks. 
Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering 
Some impious and abominable meal 
To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it ! 
And now I must scrape up the littered 

floor 
With this great iron rake, so to receive 
My absent master and his evening sheep 
In a cave neat and clean. Even now I 

see 
My children tending the flocks hitherward. 
Ha ! what is this ? are your Sicinnian mea- 
sures 
Even now the same as when with dance and 

song 
You brought young Bacchus to Althaea's 
halls ? 

CHORUS OF SATYRS 

STROPHE 

Where has he of race divine 

Wandered in the winding rocks ? 
Here the air is calm and fine 

For the father of the flocks; 
Here the grass is soft and sweet, 
And the river-eddies meet 
In the trough beside the cave, 
Bright as in their fountain wave. 
Neither here, nor on the dew 

Of the lawny uplands feeding ? 
Oh, you come ! — a stone at you 

Will I throw to mend your breeding; 
Get along, you horned thing. 
Wild, seditious, rambling ! 



THE CYCLOPS 



507 



EPODE 

An lacchic melody 

To the golden Aphrodite 
Will I lift, as erst did I 

Seeking her and her delight 
With the Msenads whose white feet 
To the music glance and fleet. 
Bacchus, O beloved, where, 
Shaking wide thy yellow hair, 
Wanderest thou alone, afar ? 

To the one-eyed Cyclops, we, 
Who by right thy servants are, 

Minister in misery. 
In these wretched goat-skins clad, 

Far from thy delights and thee. 

SILENUS 

Be silent, sons; command the slaves to 

drive 
The gathered flocks into the rock-roofed 

cave. 

CHORUS 

Go ! But what needs this serious haste, O 



father ? 



SILENUS 



I see a Grecian vessel on the coast, 
And thence the rowers with some general 
Approaching to this cave. About their necks 
Hang empty vessels, as they wanted food. 
And water-flasks. Oh, miserable strangers ! 
Whence come they that they know not 

what and who 
My master is, approaching in ill hour 
The inhospitable roof of Polypheme, 
And the Cyclopian jaw-bone, man-destroy- 
ing ? 
Be silent, Satyrs, while I ask and hear 
Whence coming they arrive the ^tnean 
hill. 

ULYSSES 

Friends, can you show me some clear water 
spring. 

The remedy of our thirst ? Will any one 

Furnish with food seamen in want of it ? 

Ha ! what is this ? We seem to be ar- 
rived 

At the blithe court of Bacchus. I observe 

This sportive band of Satyrs near the caves. 

First let me greet the elder. — Hail ! 

SILENUS 

Hail thou 
O Stranger ! tell thy country and thy race. 



ULYSSES 

The Ithacan Ulysses and the king 
Of Cephalonia. 

SILENUS 

Oh ! I know the man, 
Wordy and shrewd, the son of Sisyphus. 

ULYSSES 

I am the same, but do not rail upon me. 

SILENUS 

Whence sailing do you come to Sicily ? 

ULYSSES 

From Ilion, and from the Trojan toils. 

SILENUS 

How touched you not at your paternal 
shore ? 

ULYSSES 

The strength of tempests bore me here by 
force. 

SILENUS 

The self-same accident occurred to me. 

ULYSSES 

Were you then driven here bv stress of wea- 
ther ? 

SILENUS 

Following the Pirates who had kidnapped 
Bacchus. 

ULYSSES 

What land is this, and who inhabit it ? 

SILENUS 

iEtna, the loftiest peak in Sicily. 

ULYSSES 

And are there walls, and tower-surrounded 
towns ? 

SILENUS 

There are not. These lone rocks are bare 
of men. 

ULYSSES 

And who possess the land ? the race of 
beasts ? 

SILENUS 

Cyclops, who live in caverns, not in houses. 



5o8 



TRANSLATIONS 



ULYSSES 


SILENUS 


Obeying whom ? Or is the state popular ? 


Cow's milk there is, and store of curdled 




cheese. 


SILENUS 




Shepherds; no one obeys any in aught. 


ULYSSES 




Bring out. I would see all before I bar- 


ULYSSES 


gain. 


How live they ? do they sow the corn of 
Ceres ? 


SILENUS 




But how much gold will you engage to give ? 


SILENUS 




On milk and cheese, and the flesh of sheep. 


ULYSSES 




I bring no gold, but Bacchic juice. 


ULYSSES 




Have they the Bromian drink from the 


SILENUS 


vine's stream ? 


Oh, joy ! 




'T is long since these dry lips were wet 


SILENUS 


with wine. 


Ah, no; they live in an ungracious land. 






ULYSSES 


ULYSSES 


Maron, the son of the God, gave it me. 


And are they just to strangers ? hospitable ? 


SILENUS 


SILENUS 


Whom I have nursed a baby in my arms. 


They think the sweetest thing a stranger 




brings 


ULYSSES 


Is his own flesh. 


The son of Bacchus, for your clearer know- 




ledge. 


ULYSSES 




What ! do they eat man's flesh ? 


SILENUS 




Have you it now ? or is it in the ship ? 


SILENUS 




No one comes here who is not eaten up. 


ULYSSES 




Old man, this skin contains it, which you 


ULYSSES 


see. 


The Cyclops now — where is he ? Not at 




home ? 


SILENUS 




Why this would hardly be a mouthful for 


SILENUS 


me. 


Absent on iEtna, hunting with his dogs. 






ULYSSES 


ULYSSES 


Nay, twice as much as you can draw from 


Know'st thou what thou must do to aid us 


thence. 


hence ? 






SILENUS 


SILENUS 


You speak of a fair fountain, sweet to me. 


I know not; we will help you all we can. 


ULYSSES 


ULYSSES 


Would you first taste of the unmingled 


Provide us food, of which we are in want. 


wine ? 


SILENUS 


SILENUS 


Here is not anything, as I said, but meat. 


'T is just ; tasting invites the purchaser. 


ULYSSES 


ULYSSES 


But meat is a sweet remedy for hunger. 


Here is the cup, together with the skin. 



THE CYCLOPS 



509 



SILENUS 

Pour, that the draught may fillip my re- 
membrance. 



See! 



ULYSSES 
SILENUS 

Papaiax ! what a sweet smell it has ! 

ULYSSES 

You see it then ? — 

SILENUS 

By Jove, no ! but I smell it. 

ULYSSES 

Taste, that you may not praise it in words 
only. 

SILENUS 

Babai ! Great Bacchus calls me forth to 

dance ! 
Joy ! joy ! 

ULYSSES 

Did it flow sweetly down your throat ? 

SILENUS 

So that it tingled to my very nails. 

ULYSSES 

And in addition I will give you gold. 

SILENUS 

Let gold alone ! only unlock the cask. 

ULYSSES 

Bring out some cheeses now, or a young 
goat. 

SILENUS 

That will I do, despising any master. 
Yes, let me drink one cup, and I will give 
All that the Cyclops feed upon their moun- 
tains. 



CHORUS 

Ye have taken Troy and laid your hands on 
Helen ? 

ULYSSES 

And utterly destroyed the race of Priam. 



SILENUS 

The wanton wretch ! she was bewitched to 

see 
The many-colored anklets and the chain 
Of woven gold which girt the neck of 

Paris, 
And so she left that good man Menelaus. 
There should be no more women in the 

world 
But such as are reserved for me alone. 
See, here are sheep, and here are goats, 

Ulysses, 
Here are unsparing cheeses of pressed 

milk ; 
Take them ; depart with what good speed 

ye may; 
First leaving my reward, the Bacchic dew 
Of joy-inspiring grapes. 

ULYSSES 

Ah me ! Alas ! 
What shall we do ? the Cyclops is at hand ! 
Old man, we perish ! whither can we fly ? 

SILENUS 

Hide yourselves quick within that hollow 
rock. 

ULYSSES 

'T were perilous to fly into the net. 

SILENUS 

The cavern has recesses numberless; 
Hide yourselves quick. 

ULYSSES 

That will I never do ! 
The mighty Troy would be indeed dis- 
graced 
If I should fly one man. How many times 
Have I withstood, with shield immovable. 
Ten thousand Phrygians ! if I needs must 

die, 
Yet will I die with glory; if I live, 
The praise which I have gained will yet 
remain. 

SILENUS 

What, ho ! assistance, comrades, haste as- 
sistance ! 

The Cyclops, Silenus, Ulysses ; Chorus. 

CYCLOPS 

What is this tumult ? Bacchus is not here, 
Nor tympanies nor brazen castanets. 



5^0 



TRANSLATIONS 



How are my young lambs in the cavern ? 

Milking 
Their dams or playing by their sides ? 

And is 
The new cheese pressed into the bulrush 

baskets ? 
Speak ! I '11 beat some of you till you rain 

tears. 
Look up, not downwards when I speak to 

you. 

SILENUS 

See ! I now gape at Jupiter himself; 
I stare upon Orion and the stars. 

CYCLOPS 

Well, is the dinner fitly cooked and laid ? 

SELENUS 

A)l ready, if your throat is ready too. 

CYCLOPS 

Are the bowls full of milk besides ? 

SILENUS 

O'erbrimming; 
So you may drink a tunf ul if you will. 

CYCLOPS 

Is it ewe's milk or cow's milk, or both 
mixed ? 

SILENUS 

Both, either; only pray don't swallow me. 



CYCLOPS 



By no means. — 



What is this crowd I see beside the stalls ? 

Outlaws or thieves ? for near my cavern- 
home, 

I see my young lambs coupled two by 
two 

With willow bands; mixed with my cheeses 
lie 

Their implements; and this old fellow here 

Has his bald head broken with stripes. 

SILENUS 

Ah me ! 
I have been beaten till I burn with fever. 

CYCLOPS 

By whom? Who laid his fist upon your 
head? 



SILENUS 

Those men, because I would not suffer 

them 
To steal your goods. 

CYCLOPS 

Did not the rascals know 
I am a God, sprung from the race of hea- 
ven ? 

SILENUS 

I told them so, but they bore off your 

things, 
And ate the cheese in spite of all I said. 
And carried out the lambs — and said, 

moreover, 
They 'd pin you down with a three-cubit 

collar. 
And pull your vitals out through your one 

eye, 
Torture your back with stripes, then bind- 
ing you 
Throw you as ballast into the ship's hold. 
And then deliver you, a slave, to move 
Enormous rocks, or found a vestibule. 

CYCLOPS 

In truth ? Nay, haste, and place in order 

quickly 
The cooking knives, and heap upon the 

hearth, 
And kindle it, a great faggot of wood. 
As soon as they are slaughtered, they shall 

fill 
My belly, broiling warm from the live 

coals, 
Or boiled and seethed within the bubbling 

caldron. 
I am quite sick of the wild mountain game ; 
Of stags and lions I have gorged enough, 
And I grow hungry for the flesh of men. 

SILENUS 

Nay, master, something new is very plea- 
sant 
After one thing forever, and of late 
Very few strangers have approached our 
cave. 

ULYSSES 

Hear, Cyclops, a plain tale on the other 

side. 
We, wanting to buy food, came from our 

ship 
Into the neighborhood of your cave, and 

here 



THE CYCLOPS 



5^1 



This old Sileuus gave us in exchange 
These lambs for wine, the which he took 

and drank, 
And all by mutual compact, without force. 
There is no word of truth in what he says. 
For slyly he was selling all your store. 

SILENUS 

I ? May you perish, wretch — 

ULYSSES 

If I speak false ! 

SILENUS 

Cyclops, I swear by Neptune who begot 

thee, 
By mighty Triton and by Nereus old. 
Calypso and the glaucous ocean nymphs. 
The sacred waves and all the race of 

fishes — 
Be these the witnesses, my dear sweet 

master, 
My darling little Cyclops, that I never 
Gave any of your stores to these false 

strangers. 
If I speak false may those whom most I 

love. 
My children, perish wretchedly ! 

CHORUS 

There stop ! 
I saw him giving these things to the stran- 
gers. 
If I speak false, then may my father perish, 
But do not thou wrong hospitality. 

CYCLOPS 

You lie ! I swear that he is juster far 
Than Rhadamanthus. I trust more in him. 
But let me ask, whence have ye sailed, O 
strangers ? 

? And what city nourished 



Who are you 
ye? 



ULYSSES 



Our race is Ithacan; having destroyed 
The town of Troy, the tempests of the sea 
Have driven us on thy land, O Polypheme. 

CYCLOPS 

What, have ye shared in the unenvied spoil 
Of the false Helen, near Scamander's 
stream ? 

ULYSSES 

The same, having endured a woful toil. 



CYCLOPS 

Oh, basest expedition ! sailed ye not 
From Greece to Phrygia for one woman's 
sake ? 

ULYSSES 

'T was the Gods' work — no mortal was in 

fault. 
But, O great offspring of the Ocean-king, 
We pray thee and admonish thee with free- 
dom 
That thou dost spare thy friends who visit 

thee. 
And place no impious food within thy jaws. 
For in the depths of Greece we have up- 
reared 
Temples to thy great father, which are all 
His homes. The sacred bay of Tsenarus 
Remains inviolate, and each dim recess 
Scooped high on the Malean promontory, 
And aery Sunium's silver-veined crag 
Which divine Pallas keeps unprofaned ever, 
The Gerastian asylums, and whate'er 
Within wide Greece our enterprise has kept 
From Phrygian contumely; and in which 
You have a common care, for you inhabit 
The skirts of Grecian land, under the roots 
Of iEtna and its crags, spotted with fire. 
Turn then to converse under human laws. 
Receive us shipwrecked suppliants, and 

provide 
Food, clothes, and fire, and hospitable gifts; 
Nor fixing upon oxen-piercing spits 
Our limbs, so fill your belly and your jaws. 
Priam's wide land has widowed Greece 

enough; 
And weapon-winged murder heaped to- 
gether 
Enough of dead, and wives are husbandless, 
And ancient women and gray fathers wail 
Their childless age. If you should roast 

the rest — 
And 't is a bitter feast that you prepare — 
Where then would any turn ? Yet be 

persuaded ; 
Forego the lust of your jaw-bone; prefer 
Pious humanity to wicked will. 
Many have bought too dear their evil joys. 

SILENUS 

Let me advise you, do not spare a morsel 
Of all his flesh. If you should eat his 

tongue 
You would become most eloquent,. O Cy- 
clops. 



512 



TRANSLATIONS 



CYCLOPS 

Wealth, my good fellow, is the wise man's 

God; 
All other things are a pretence and boast. 
What are my father's ocean promontories, 
The sacred rocks whereon he dwells, to me ? 
Stranger, I laugh to scorn Jove's thunder- 
bolt, 
I know not that his strength is more than 

mine. 
As to the rest I care not. When he pours 
Rain from above, I have a close pavilion 
Under this rock, in which I lie supine. 
Feasting on a roast calf or some wild beast, 
And drinking pans of milk, and gloriously 
Emulating the thunder of high heaven. 
And when the Thracian wind pours down 

the snow, 
I wrap my body in the skins of beasts. 
Kindle a fire, and bid the snow whirl on. 
The earth, by force, whether it will or no. 
Bringing forth grass, fattens my flocks and 

herds. 
Which, to what other God but to myself 
And this great belly, first of deities. 
Should I be bound to sacrifice ? I well 

know 
The wise man's only Jupiter is this. 
To eat and drink during his little day. 
And give himself no care. And as for those 
Who complicate with laws the life of man, 
I freely give them tears for their reward. 
I will not cheat my soul of its delight, 
Or hesitate in dining upon you. 
And that I may be quit of all demands. 
These are my hospitable gifts ; — fierce fire 
And yon ancestral caldron, which o'erbub- 

bling 
Shall finely cook your miserable flesh. 
Creep in ! — 



ULYSSES 

Ai ! ai ! I have escaped the Trojan toils, 
I have escaped the sea, and now I fall 
Under the cruel grasp of one impious man. 
O Pallas, mistress. Goddess sprung from 

Jove, 
Now, now, assist me ! Mightier toils than 

Troy 
Are these. I totter on the chasms of peril. 
And thou who inhabitest the thrones 
Of the bright stars, look, hospitable Jove, 
Upon this outrage of thy deity, 
Otherwise be considered as no God ! 



CHORUS (alone) 
For your gaping gulf, and your gullet wide 
The ravin is ready on every side. 
The limbs of the strangers are cooked and 
done; 
There is boiled meat, and roast meat, 
and meat from the coal. 
You may chop it, and tear it, and gnash it 
for fun, 
An hairy goat's-skin contains the whole. 
Let me but escape, and ferry me o'er 
The stream of your wrath to a safer shore. 
The Cyclops -^tnean is cruel and bold. 
He murders the strangers 

That sit on his hearth. 
And dreads no avengers 
To rise from the earth. 
He roasts the men before they are cold. 
He snatches them broiling from the coal, 
And from the caldron pulls them whole, 
And minces their flesh, and gnaws their 

bone 
With his cursed teeth, till all be gone. 
Farewell, foul pavilion: 

Farewell, rites of dread ! 
The Cyclops vermilion, 

With slaughter uncloying. 
Now feasts on the dead. 

In the flesh of strangers joying ! 

ULYSSES 

O Jupiter ! I saw within the cave 
Horrible things; deeds to be feigned in 

words. 
But not to be believed as being done. 

CHORUS 

What ! sawest thou the impious Polypheme 
Feasting upon your loved companions now ? 

ULYSSES 

Selecting two, the plumpest of the crowd. 
He grasped them in his hands. — 



CHORUS 



ULYSSES 



Unhappy man ! 



Soon as we came into this craggy place, 
Kindling a fire, he cast on the broad hearth 
The knotty limbs of an enormous oak, 
Three wagon-loads at least, and then he 

strewed 
Upon the ground, beside the red firelight, 



THE CYCLOPS 



513 



His couch of pine leaves; and he milked 

the cows, 
And, pouring forth the white milk, filled a 

bowl 
Three cubits wide and four in depth, as 

much 
As would contain ten amphorae, and bound 

it 
With ivy wreaths; then placed upon the 

fire 
A brazen pot to boil, and made red hot 
The points of spits, not sharpened with the 

sickle. 
But with a fruit tree bough, and with the 

jaws 
Of axes for iEtnean slaughterings. 
And when this God-abandoned cook of 

hell 
Had made all ready, he seized two of us 
And killed them in a kind of measured 

manner; 
For he flung one against the brazen rivets 
Of the huge caldron, and seized the other 
By the foot's tendon, and knocked out his 

brains 
Upon the sharp edge of the craggy stone ; 
Then peeled his flesh with a great cooking- 
knife 
And put him down to roast. The other's 

limbs 
He chopped into the caldron to be boiled. 
And I, with the tears raining from my 

eyes. 
Stood near the Cyclops, ministering to 

him; 
The rest, in the recesses of the cave, 
Clung to the rock like bats, bloodless with 

fear. 
When he was filled with my companions' 

flesh, 
He threw himself upon the ground and 

sent 
A loathsome exhalation from his maw. 
Then a divine thought came to me. I 

filled 
The cup of Maron, and I offered him 
To taste, and said : — ' Child of the Ocean 

God, 
Behold what drink the vines of Greece pro- 
duce. 
The exultation and the joy of Bacchus.' 
He, satiated with his unnatural food. 
Received it, and at one draught drank it off. 
And, taking my hand, praised me : — * Thou 

bast given 



A sweet draught after a sweet meal, dear 

guest.' 
And I perceiving that it pleased him, filled 
Another cup, well knowing that the wine 
Would wound him soon and take a sure 

revenge. 
And the charm fascinated him, and I 
Plied him cup after cup, until the drink 
Had warmed his entrails, and he sang aloud 
In concert with my wailing fellow-seamen 
A hideous discord — and the cavern rung. 
I have stolen out, so that if you will 
You may achieve my safety and your own. 
But say, do you desire, or not, to fly 
This uncompanionable man, and dwell 
As was your wont among the Grecian 

Nymphs 
Within the fanes of your beloved God ? 
Your father there within agrees to it. 
But he is weak and overcome with wine, 
And, caught as if with bird-lime by the 

cup. 
He claps his wings and crows in doting joy. 
You who are young, escape with me, and find 
Bacchus your ancient friend; unsuited he 
To this rude Cyclops. 

CHORUS 

Oh, my dearest friend, 
That I could see that day, and leave for- 
ever 
The impious Cyclops. 



ULYSSES 

Listen then what a punishment I have 
For this fell monster, how secure a flight 
From your hard servitude. 

CHORUS 

Oh, sweeter far 
Than is the music of an Asian lyre 
Would be the news of Polypheme de- 
stroyed. 

ULYSSES 

Delighted with the Bacchic drink he goes 
To call his brother Cyclops, who inhabit 
A village upon ^tna not far off. 

CHORUS 

I understand, catching him when alone 
You think by some measure to dispatch 

him. 
Or thrust him from the precipice. 



514 



TRANSLATIONS 



ULYSSBS 

Oh, no; 
Nothing of that kind; my device is subtle. 

CHORUS 

How then ? I heard of old that thou wert 
wise. 

ULYSSES 

I will dissuade him from this plan, by say- 
ing 
It were unwise to give the Cyclopses 
This precious drink, which if enjoyed alone 
Would make life sweeter for a longer 

time. 
When, vanquished by the Bacchic power, 

he sleeps. 
There is a trunk of olive wood within. 
Whose point having made sharp with this 

good sword 
I will conceal in fire, and "when I see 
It is alight, will fix it, burning yet, 
Within the socket of the Cyclops' eye 
And melt it out with fire; as when a man 
Turns by its handle a great auger round, 
Fitting the framework of a ship with beams. 
So will I in the Cyclops' fiery eye 
Turn round the brand and dry the pupil 
up 

CHORUS 

Joy ! I am mad with joy at your device. 

ULYSSES 

And then with you, my friends, and the 

old man. 
We '11 load the hollow depth of our black 

ship. 
And row with double strokes from this 

dread shore. 

CHORUS 

May I, as in libations to a God, 

Share in the blinding him with the red 

brand ? 
I would have some communion in his 

death. 

ULYSSES 

Doubtless; the brand is a great brand to 
hold. 

CHORUS 

Oh 1 I would lift an hundred wagon-loads, 
If like a wasp's nest I could scoop the eye 

out 
Of the detested Cyclops. 



ULYSSES 

Silence now ! 
Ye know the close device ; and when I call, 
Look ye obey the masters of the craft. 
I will not save myself and leave behind 
My comrades in the cave ; I might escapCt 
Having got clear from that obscure recess. 
But 't were unjust to leave in jeopardy 
The dear companions who sailed here with 



me. 



CHORUS 

Come ! who is first, that with his hand 
Will urge down the burning brand 
Through the lids, and quench and pierce 
The Cyclops' eye so fiery fierce ? 



SEMICHORUS I 

(Song within) 
Listen ! listen ! he is coming, 
A most hideous discord humming. 
Drunken, museless, awkward, yelling, 
Far along his rocky dwelling; 
Let us with some comic spell 
Teach the yet unteachable. 
By all means he must be blinded, 
If my counsel be but minded. 

SEMICHORUS II 

Happy those made odorous 

With the dew which sweet grapes 
weep, 
To the village hastening thus. 

Seek the vines that soothe to sleep. 
Having first embraced thy friend. 
There in luxury without end. 
With the strings of yellow hair, 
Of thy voluptuous leman fair, 
Shalt sit playing on a bed ! — 
Speak what door is opened ? 

CYCLOPS 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! I 'm full of wine. 

Heavy with the joy divine. 

With the young feast oversated; 

Like a merchant's vessel freighted 

To the water's edge, my crop 

Is laden to the gullet's top. 

The fresh meadow grass of spring 

Tempts me forth thus wandering 
To my brothers on the mountains. 
Who shall share the wine's sweet 
fountains. 

Bring the cask, O stranger, bring I 



THE CYCLOPS 



515 



CHORUS 

One with eyes the fairest 

Cometh from his dwelling; 
Some one loves thee, rarest, 

Bright beyond my telling. 
In thy grace thou shinest 
Like some nymph divinest, 
In her caverns dewy; 
All delights pursue thee, 
Soon pied flowers, sweet-breathing. 
Shall thy head be wreathing. 

ULYSSES 

Listen, O Cyclops, for I am well skilled 
In Bacchus, whom I gave thee of to drink. 

CYCIiOPS 

What sort of God is Bacchus then ac- 
counted ? 

ULYSSES 

The greatest among men for joy of life. 

CYCLOPS 

I gulped him down with very great delight. 

ULYSSES 

This is a God who never injures men. 

CYCLOPS 

How does the God like living in a skin ? 

ULYSSES 

He is content wherever he is put. 

CYCLOPS 

Gods should not have their body in a skin. 

ULYSSES 

If he gives joy, what is his skin to you ? 

CYCLOPS 

I hate the skin, but love the wine within. 

ULYSSES 

Stay here, now drink, and make your spirit 



glad. 



CYCLOPS 



Should I not share this liquor with my 
brothers ? 

ULYSSES 

Keep it yourself, and be more honored so. 

CYCLOPS 

I were more useful, giving to my friends. 



ULYSSES 

But village mirth breeds contests, broils, 
and blows. 

CYCLOPS 

When I am drunk none shall lay hands on 
me. 

ULYSSES 

A drunken man is better within doors. 

CYCLOPS 

He is a fool, who, drinking, loves not mirth. 

ULYSSES 

But he is wise, who drunk remains at home. 

CYCLOPS 

What shall I do, Silenus ? Shall I stay ? 

SILENUS 

Stay — for what need have you of pot 
companions ? 

CYCLOPS 

Indeed this place is closely carpeted 
With flowers and grass. 

SILENUS 

And in the sun- warm noon 
'T is sweet to drink. Lie down beside m© 

now. 
Placing your mighty sides upon the ground. 

CYCLOPS 

What do you put the cup behind me for ? 

SIJiENUS 

That no one here may touch it. 

CYCLOPS 

Thievish one ! 
You want to drink. Here place it in the 

midst. 
And thou, O stranger, tell how art thou 

called ? 

ULYSSES 

My name is Nobody. What favor now 
Shall I receive to praise you at your hands ? 

CYCLOPS 

I '11 feast on you the last of your compan- 
ions. 

ULYSSES 

You grant your guest a fair reward, O Cy- 
clops. 



5^6 



TRANSLATIONS 



CYCLOPS 

Ha ! what is this ? Stealing the wine, you 



rogue 



SILENUS 



It was this stranger kissing me because 
I looked so beautiful. 

CYCLOPS 

You shall repent 
For kissing the coy wine that loves you not. 

SILENUS 

By Jupiter ! you said that I am fair. 

CYCLOPS 

Pour out, and only give me the cup full. 

SILENUS 

How is it mixed ? let me observe. 



CYCLOPS 



Give it me so. 



Curse you ! 



SILENUS 

Not till I see you wear 
That coronal, and taste the cup to you. 

CYCLOPS 

Thou wily traitor ! 

SILENUS 

But the wine is sweet. 
Ay, you will roar if you are caught in 
drinking. 

CYCLOPS 

See now, my lip is clean and all my beard. 

SILENUS 

Now put your elbow right and drink again. 
As you see me drink — ... 



CYCLOPS 



How now ? 



SILENUS 

Ye Gods, what a delicious gulp ! 

CYCLOPS 

Guest, take it. You pour out the wine for 
me. 

ULYSSES 

The wine is well accustomed to my hand. 



CYCLOPS 

Pour out the wine ! 

ULYSSES 

I pour; only be silent 

CYCLOPS 

Silence is a hard task to him who drinks. 

ULYSSES 

Take it and drink it off; leave not a dreg. 
Oh, that the drinker died with his own 
draught ! 

CYCLOPS 

Papai ! the vine must be a sapient plant. 

ULYSSES 

If you drink much after a mighty feast, 
Moistening your thirsty maw, you will sleep 

well; 
If you leave aught, Bacchus will dry you 

up. 

CYCLOPS 

Ho ! ho ! I can scarce rise. What pure 

delight ! 
The heavens and earth appear to whirl 

about 
Confusedly. I see the throne of Jove 
And the clear congregation of the Gods. 
Now if the Graces tempted me to kiss 
I would not, for the loveliest of them all 
I would not leave this Ganymede. 



SILENUS 



Polypheme, 



I am the Ganymede of Jupiter. 

CYCLOPS 

By Jove you are ; I bore you off from Dar- 
danus. 



Ulysses and the Chorus 

ULYSSES 

Come, boys of Bacchus, children of high 

race. 
This man within is folded up in sleep. 
And soon will vomit flesh from his fell maw; 
The brand under the shed thrusts out its 

smoke ; 
No preparation needs, but to burn out 
The monster's ^..y«; — but bear yourselves 

like m&ta.. 



THE CYCLOPS 



517 



CHORUS 

We will have courage like the adamant 

rock. 
All things are ready for you here; go in 
Before our father shall perceive the noise. 

UliYSSES 

Vulcan, ^tnean king ! burn out with fire 
The shining eye of this thy neighboring 

monster ! 
And thou, O sleep, nursling of gloomy 

night, 
Descend unmixed on this God-hated beast. 
And suffer not Ulysses and his comrades, 
Returning from their famous Trojan toils, 
To perish by this man, who cares not either 
For God or mortal; or I needs must 

think 
That Chance is a supreme divinity, 
And things divine are subject to her power. 

CHORUS 

Soon a crab the throat will seize 

Of him who feeds upon his guest; 
Fire will burn his lamp-like eyes 

In revenge of such a feast ! 
A great oak stump now is lying 
In the ashes yet undying. 

Come, Maron, come ! 
Raging let him fix the doom. 
Let him tear the eyelid up 
Of the Cyclops — that his cup 

May be evil ! 
Oh, I long to dance and revel 
With sweet Bromian, long desired, 
In loved ivy wreaths attired; 
Leaving this abandoned home — 
Will the moment ever come ? 

ULYSSES 

Be silent, ye wild things ! Nay, hold your 
peace. 

And keep your lips quite close; dare not to 
breathe. 

Or spit, or e'en wink, lest ye wake the mon- 
ster, — 

Until his eye be tortured out with fire. 

CHORUS 

Nay, we are silent, and we chaw the air. 

ULYSSES 

Come now, and lend a hand to the great 

stake 
Within — it is delightfully red hot. 



CHORUS 

You then command who first should seize 

the stake 
To burn the Cyclops' eye, that all may share 
In the great enterprise. 

SEMICHORUS I 

We are too far; 
We cannot at this distance from the door 
Thrust fire into his eye. 

SEMICHORUS n 

And we just now 
Have become lame; cannot move hand or 
foot. 

CHORUS 

The same thing has occurred to us; our 

ankles 
Are sprained with standing here, I know 

not how. 

ULYSSES 

What, sprained with standing still ? 

CHORUS 

And there is dust 
Or ashes in our eyes, I know not whence. 

ULYSSES 

Cowardly dogs ! ye will not aid me then ? 

CHORUS 

With pitying my own back and my back» 

bone, 
And with not wishing all my teeth knocked 

out, 
This cowardice comes of itself. But stay, 
I know a famous Orphic incantation 
To make the brand stick of its own accord 
Into the skull of this one-eyed son of Earth. 

ULYSSES 

Of old I knew ye thus by nature; now 

I know ye better. I will use the aid 

Of my own comrades. Yet though weak 

of hand 
Speak cheerfully, that so ye may awaken 
The courage of my friends with your blithe 

words. 

CHORUS 

This I will do with peril of my life. 
And blind you with my exhortations, Cy> 
clops. 

Hasten and thrust, 

And parch up to dust, 



S»8 



TRANSLATIONS 



The eye of tbe beast, 

Who feeds on his guest ! 

Burn and blind 

The ^tnean hind ! 

Scoop and draw, 

But beware lest he claw 

Your limbs near his maw. 

CYCLOPS 

Ah me ! my eyesight is parched up to cin- 
ders. 

CHORUS 

What a sweet psean ! sing me that again ! 

CYCLOPS 

Ah me ! indeed, what woe has fallen upon 

me ! 
But wretched nothings, think ye not to flee 
Out of this rock; I, standing at the outlet, 
Will bar the way and catch you as you pass. 

CHORUS 

What are you roaring out, Cyclops ? 



CYCLOPS 



I perish ! 



CHORUS 

For you are wicked. 



CYCLOPS 

And besides miserable. 

CHORUS 

What, did you fall into the fire when drunk ? 

CYCLOPS 

'T was Nobody destroyed me. 



CHORUS 



Can be to blame. 



Why, then no one 

CYCLOPS 

I say 't was Nobody 



Who blinded me. 

CHORUS 

Why, then you are not blind. 

CYCLOPS 

I wish you were as blind as I am. 



CHORUS 



Nay, 



CYCLOPS 

You jeer me ; where, I ask, is Nobody ? 

CHORUS 

Nowhere, O Cyclops. 

CYCLOPS 

It was that stranger ruined me. The 

wretch 
First gave me wine and then burned out 

my eye. 
For wine is strong and hard to struggle 

with. 
Have they escaped, or are they yet within ? 

CHORUS 

They stand under the darkness of the rock 
And cling to it. 

CYCLOPS 

At my right hand or left ? 

CHORUS 

Close on your right. 

CYCLOPS 

Where ? 



CHORUS 

Near the rock itself. 



You have them. 



It cannot be that no one made you blind. 



CYCLOPS 

Oh, misfortune on misfortune ! 
I 've cracked my skull. 

CHORUS 

Now they escape you there. 

CYCLOPS 

Not there, although you say so. 



CHORUS 



Not on that side. 



CYCLOPS 



Where then ? 



CHORUS 

They creep about you on your left. 

CYCLOPS 

Ah ! I am mocked ! They jeer me in my 
ills. 

CHORUS 

Not there ! he is a little there beyond you. 



EPIGRAMS FROM THE GREEK 



519 



CYCLOPS 

Detested wretch ! where are you ? 

ULYSSES 

Far from you 
I keep with care this body of Ulysses. 

CYCLOPS 

What do you say ? You proffer a new 
name. 

ULYSSES 

My father named me so; and I have taken 

A full revenge for your unnatural feast; 

I should have done ill to have burned down 
Troy 

And not revenged the murder of my com- 
rades. 

CYCLOPS 

Ai ! ai ! the ancient oracle is accomplished ; 
It said that I should have my eyesight 

blinded 
By you coming from Troy, yet it foretold 
That you should pay the penalty for this 
By wandering long over the homeless sea. 

ULYSSES 

I bid thee weep — consider what I say ; 
I go towards the shore to drive my ship 
To mine own land, o'er the Sicilian wave. 

CYCLOPS 

Not so, if, whelming you with this huge 

stone, 
I can crush you and all your men together. 
I will descend upon the shore, though 

blind, 
Groping my way adown the steep ravine. 

CHORUS 

And we, the shipmates of Ulysses now. 
Will serve our Bacchus all our happy 
lives. 



EPIGRAMS FROM THE GREEK 

I 

SPIRIT OF PLATO 

Eagle ! why soarest thou above that 

tomb ? 
To what sublime and star-y-paven home 
Floatest thou ? — 



I am the image of swift Plato's spirit, 
Ascending heaven ; Athens doth inherit 
His corpse below. 

Undated. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed. 



II 



CIRCUMSTANCE 

A MAN who was about to hang himself, 
Finding a purse, then threw away his 
rope; 
The owner, coming to reclaim his pelf. 
The halter found, and used it. So is 
Hope 
Changed for Despair; one laid upon the 
shelf, 
We take the other. Under heaven's 
high cope 
Fortune is God; all you endure and do 
Depends on circumstance as much as you. 

Undated. Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed. 



Ill 



TO STELLA 

FROM PLATO 

Medwin describes the composition of this 
stanza : ' Plato's epigram on Aster, which 
Shelley had applied to Keats, happened to be 
mentioned, and I asked Shelley if he could 
render it. He took up the pen and impro- 
vised.' 

It was published by Mrs. Shelley in her first 
collected edition, 1839, as was also the follow- 
ing. 

Thou wert the morning star among the 
living, 
Ere thy fair light had fled; 
Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, 
giving 
New splendor to the dead. 



IV 



KISSING HELENA 

FROM PLATO 

Kissing Helena, together 

With my kiss, my soul beside it 
Came to my lips, and there I kept it, 



;20 



TRANSLATIONS 



For the poor thing had wandered thither, 
To follow where the kiss should guide it, 
Oh, cruel 1, to intercept it ! 



FROM MOSCHUS 



Tau d\a rav yXavKav '6rav Sive/xos arpeixa fidWr] 

When winds that move not its calm sur- 
face sweep 

The azure sea, I love the land no more; 

The smiles of the serene and tranquil deep 

Tempt my unquiet mind. But when the 
roar 

Of ocean's gray abyss resounds, and foam 

Gathers upon the sea, and vast waves burst, 

I turn from the drear aspect to the home 

Of earth and its deep woods, where, inter- 
spersed. 

When winds blow loud, pines make sweet 
melody. 

Whose house is some lone bark, whose toil 
the sea. 

Whose prey the wandering fish, an evil 
lot 

Has chosen. But I my languid limbs will 
fling 

Beneath the plane, where the brook's mur- 
muring 

Moves the calm spirit, but disturbs it 
not. 

Undated. Published with Alastor, 1816. 



II 



PAN, ECHO, AND THE SATYR 

Pan loved his neighbor Echo, but that 
child 
Of Earth and Air pined for the Satyr 
leaping; 
The Satyr loved with wasting madness 
wild 
The bright nymph Lyda; and so three 
went weeping. 
As Pan loved Echo, Echo loved the Satyr, 
The Satyr, Lyda; and so love consumed 
them. 
And thus to each — which was a wof ul 
matter — 
To bear what they inflicted Justice 
doomed them; 



For, inasmuch as each might hate the 
lover. 
Each, loving, so was hated. — Ye that 
love not 
Be warned — in thought turn this example 
over, 
That when ye love, the like return ye 
prove not. 

Undated. Published by Mrs. Shelley, Post- 
humous Poems, 1824. 



Ill 



FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON 
THE DEATH OF BION 

Ye Dorian woods and waves lament 
aloud, — 

Augment your tide, O streams, with fruit- 
less tears. 

For the beloved Bion is no more. 

Let every tender herb and plant and flower, 

From each dejected bud and drooping 
bloom, 

Shed dews of liquid sorrow, and with 
breath 

Of melancholy sweetness on the wind 

Diffuse its languid love; let roses blush. 

Anemones grow paler for the loss 

Their dells have known; and thou, O hya- 
cinth. 

Utter thy legend now — yet more, dumb 
flower, 

Than * ah ! alas ! ' — thine is no common 
grief — 

Bion the [sweetest singer] is no more. 

Undated. Published by Forman, 1876. 



FROM BION 

FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON THE 
DEATH OF ADONIS 

I MOURN Adonis dead — loveliest Adonis — 

Dead, dead Adonis — and the Loves la- 
ment. 

Sleep no more, Venus, wrapped in purple 
woof. 

Wake, violet-stolid queen, and weave the 
crown 

Of Death — 'tis Misery calls — for he is 
dead ! 



THE TENTH ECLOGUE 



521 



The lovely one lies wounded in the 

mountains, 
His white thigh struck with the white 

tooth; he scarce 
Yet breathes; and Venus hangs in agony 

there. 
The dark blood wanders o'er his snowy 

limbs, 
His eyes beneath their lids are lustreless. 
The rose has fled from his wan lips, and 

there 
That kiss is dead, which Venus gathers 

yet. 

A deep, deep wound Adonis . . . 
A deeper Venus bears upon her heart. 
See, his beloved dogs are gathering round — 
The Oread nymphs are weeping. Aphrodite 
With hair unbound is wandering through 

the woods, 
Wildered, ungirt, unsandalled — the thorns 

pierce 
Her hastening feet and drink her sacred 

blood. 
Bitterly screaming out she is driven on 
Through the long vales; and her Assyrian 

boy, 
Her love, her husband calls. The purple 

blood 
From his struck thigh stains her white 

navel now, 
Her bosom, and her neck before like 

snow. 

Alas for Cytherea ! the Loves mourn — 
The lovely, the beloved is gone ! — And 

now 
Her sacred beauty vanishes away. 
For Venus whilst Adonis lived was fair — 
Alas ! her loveliness is dead with him. 
The oaks and mountains cry, Ai ! ai ! 

Adonis ! 
The springs their waters change to tears 

and weep — 
The flowers are withered up with grief . . . 

Ai ! ai ! Adonis is dead 

Echo resounds Adonis dead. 

Who will weep not thy dreadful woe, O 

Venus ? 
Soon as she saw and knew the mortal 

wound 
Of her Adonis — saw the life blood flow 
From his fair thigh, now wasting, wailing 

loud 



She clasped him, and cried * Stay 

Adonis ! 
Stay, dearest one, — 

and mix my lips with thine ! 
Wake yet a while Adonis — oh, but once ! 
That I may kiss thee now for the last 

time — 
But for as long as one short kiss may live I 
Oh, let thy breath flow from thy dying soul 
Even to my mouth and heart, that 1 may 

suck 
That 

Undated. Published by Forman, 1876. 



FROM VIRGIL 

THE TENTH ECLOGUE 
[V. 1-26] 

Melodious Arethusa, o'er my verse 

Shed thou once more the spirit of thy 
stream. 
Who denies verse to Gallus ? So, when 
thou 
Glidest beneath the green and purple 
gleam 
Of Syracusan waters, mayst thou flow 

Unmingled with the bitter Doric dew ! 
Begin, and, whilst the goats are browsing 
now 
The soft leaves, in our way let us pursuf 
The melancholy loves of Gallus. List ! 
We sing not to the dead; the wild woods 
knew 
His sufferings, and their echoes . . . 

Young Naiads, in what far wood- 
lands wild 
Wandered ye when unworthy love pos- 
sessed 
Your Gallus ? Not where Pindus is up- 
piled. 
Nor where Parnassus' sacred mount, nor 

where 
Aonian Aganippe expands 

The laurels and the myrtle-copses dim. 
The pine-encircled mountain, Msenalus, 
The cold crags of Lycseus, weep for him; 
And Sylvan, crowned with rustic cor- 
onals, 
Came shaking in his speed the budding 

wands 
And heavy lilies which he bore ; we knew 
Pan the Arcadian. 



522 



TRANSLATIONS 



Thy 



What madness is this, Gallus ? 

heart's care 
With willing steps pursues another there 
Undated. Published by Rossetti, 1870. 



FROM DANTE 



ADAPTED FROM A SONNET IN THE VITA 
NUOVA 

Forman who published the lines, 1876, 
vouches for them thus : ' These lines . . . are 
said to have been scratched by Shelley on a 
window-pane at a house wherein he lodged 
while staying in I^ondon. I have them on the 
authority of a gentleman whose mother was 
the proprietress of the house.' 

What Mary is when she a little smiles 
I cannot even tell or call to mind, 
It is a miracle so new, so rare. 



II 
SONNET 

DANTE ALIGHIERI tO GUIDO CAVALCANTI 

GuiDO, I would that Lappo, thou, and I, 
Led by some strong enchantment, might 

ascend 
A magic ship, whose charmed sails should 

% 
With winds at will where'er our thoughts 

might wend, 
So that no change, nor any evil chance 
Should mar our joyous voyage, but it 

might be 
That even satiety should still enhance 
Between our hearts their strict community; 
And that the bounteous wizard then would 

place 
Vanna and Bice and my gentle love, 
Companions of our wandering, and would 

grace 
With passionate talk wherever we might 

rove 
Our time, and each were as content and 

free 
As I believe that thou and I should be. 
Undated. Published with Alastor, 1816. 



Ill 



THE FIRST CANZONE OF THE 
CONVITO 



Ye who intelligent the Third Heaven move, 
Hear the discourse which is within my 

heart. 
Which cannot be declared, it seems so 

new. 
The Heaven whose course follows your 

power and art, 

gentle creatures that ye are ! me drew. 
And therefore may I dare to speak to 

you. 
Even of the life which now I live, — and 
yet 

1 pray that ye will hear me when I cry. 
And tell of mine own Heart this novelty ; 

How the lamenting Spirit moans in it. 
And how a voice there murmurs against her 
Who came on the refulgence of your 
sphere. 

II 

A sweet Thought, which was once the life 
within 
This heavy Heart, many a time and oft 
Went up before our Father's feet, and 
there 
It saw a glorious Lady throned aloft; 
And its sweet talk of her my soul did win, 
So that I said, ' Thither I too will fare.' 
That Thought is fled, and one doth 
now appear 
Which tyrannizes me with such fierce stress 
That my heart trembles — ye may see it 

leap — 
And on another Lady bids me keep 
Mine eyes, and says: * Who would have 

blessedness 
Let him but look upon that Lady's eyes; 
Let him not fear the agony of sighs.' 

Ill 

This lowly Thought, which once would talk 

with me 
Of a bright Seraph sitting crowned on high, 
Found such a cruel foe it died ; and so 
My Spirit wept — the grief is hot even 
now — 
And said, ' Alas for me ! now swift could 
flee 



MATILDA GATHERING FLOWERS 



523 



That piteous Thought which did my life 
console ! ' 
And the afflicted one 



question- 



ing 



Mine eyes, if such a Lady saw they 
never, 
And why they would . . . 

I said : ' Beneath those eyes might 
stand forever 
He whom regards must kill with . . . 

To have known their power stood me in 

little stead; 
Those eyes have looked on me, and I am 
dead.' 

IV 

'Thou art not dead, but thou hast wan- 
dered, 
Thou Soul of ours, who thyself dost 
fret,' 

A Spirit gentle Love beside me said: 

* For that fair Lady, whom thou dost re- 
gret. 

Hath so transformed the life which thou 
hast led, 

Thou scornest it, so worthless art thou 
made. 

And see how meek, how pitiful, how staid, 

Yet courteous, in her majesty she is. 

And still call thou her " Woman" in thy 

thought; 
Her whom, if thou thyself deceivest not. 

Thou wilt behold decked with such loveli- 
ness, 

That thou wilt cry : " [Love] only Lord, lo 
here 

Thy handmaiden, do what thou wilt with 
her." ' 



My song, I fear that thou wilt find but few 
Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning. 
Of such hard matter dost thou enter- 
tain. 
Whence, if by misadventure chance 
should bring 
Thee to base company, as chance may do, 
Quite unaware of what thou dost con- 
tain, 
I prithee comfort thy sweet self again, 
My last delight; tell them that they are 

dull, 
And bid them own that thou art beautiful. 

Published (i-iv) by Garnett, 1862, with date, 
1820 ; V with Epipsychidion, 1821. 



IV 



MATILDA GATHERING FLOW- 
ERS 

PURGATORio, xxviii. 1-51 

Published by Medwin, The Angler in Wales, 
1834, and Life of Shelley^ 3847, and completed 
by Garnett, 1862. Medwin describes how he 
obtained the copy : ' I had also the advantage 
of reading Dante with him ; he lamented that 
no adequate translation existed of the Divina 
Commedia, and though he thought highly of 
Carey's work, — with which he said he had for 
the first time studied the original, praising the 
fidelity of the version, — it by no means satis- 
fied him. What he meant by an adequate 
translation was one in terza rima ; for, in Shel- 
ley's own words, he held it an essential justice 
to an author to render him in the same form. 
I asked him if he had never attempted this, and, 
looking among his papers, he showed, and gave 
me to copy, the following fragment from the 
Purgatorio, which leaves on the mind an inex- 
tinguishable regret that he had not completed 
— nay, more, that he did not employ himself 
in rendering other of the finest passages,' 

And earnest to explore within — around — 
That divine wood whose thick green living 

woof 
Tempered the young day to the sight, I 

wound 

Up the green slope, beneath the forest's 
roof, 

With slow soft steps leaving the mountain's 
steep ; 

And sought those inmost labyrinths' motion- 
proof 

Against the air, that, in that stillness 

deep 
And solemn, struck upon my forehead bare 
The slow, soft stroke of a continuous . . . 

In which the leaves tremblingly 

were 
All bent towards that part where earliest 
The sacred hill obscures the morning air. 

Yet were they not so shaken from the 

rest, 
But that the birds, perched on the utmost 

spray. 
Incessantly renewing their blithe quest. 



524 



TRANSLATIONS 



With perfect joy received the early day, 
Singing within the glancing leaves, whose 

sound 
Kept a low burden to their roundelay, 

Such as from bough to bough gathers 

around 
The pine forest on bleak Chiassi's shore. 
When ^olus Sirocco has unbound. 

My slow steps had already borne me o'er 
Such space within the antique wood that I 
Perceived not where I entered any more, 

When, lo ! a stream whose little waves 

went by, 
Bending towards the left through grass that 

grew 
Upon its bank, impeded suddenly 

My going on. Water of purest hue 
On earth would appear turbid and i in pi: re 
Compared with this, whose unconcealing 
dew. 

Dark, dark, yet clear, moved under the 

obscure 
Eternal shades, whose interwoven looms 
No ray of moon or sunshine would endure. 

I moved not with my feet, but mid the 
glooms 

Pierced with my charmed eye, contemplat- 
ing 

The mighty multitude of fresh May blooms 

That starred that night; when, even as a 

thing 
That suddenly, for blank astonishment, 
Charms every sense, and makes all thought 

take wing, — 

A solitary woman ! and she went 
Singing, and gathering flower after flower. 
With which her way was painted and be- 
sprent. 

* Bright lady, who, if looks had ever power 
To bear true witness of the heart within, 
Dost bask under the beams of love, come 
lower 

^ Towards this bank. I prithee let me win 
This much of thee, to come, that I may hear 
Thy song. Like Proserpine, in Enna's glen, 



' Thou seemest to my fancy, singing here 
And gathering flowers, as that fair maiden 

when 
She lost the spring, and Ceres her, more 

dear.' 



UGOLINO 

INFERNO xxxiii. 22-75 

TRANSLATED BY MEDWIN AND COR- 
RECTED BY SHELLEY 

Medwin describes this joint composition : 
' At JShelley's request and with his assistance, 
I attempted to give the Ugolino, which is 
valuable to the admirers of Shelley, on ac- 
count of his numerous corrections, which al- 
most indeed make it his own.' 

The piece was first published in Medwin's 
Sketches in Hindoostan with other poems, 1821, 
and revised in the present form, with Shelley's 
part in italics, in Life of Shelley, 1847. For- 
man conjectures that he ascribes less to Shelley 
than was due. Shelley is said to have com- 
plained to Mrs. Shelley that Medwin had car- 
ried off some of his translations. 

Now had the loophole of that dungeon, still 
Which bears the name of Famine's Tower 

from me. 
And where 't is fit that many another will 

Be doomed to linger in captivity, 

Shown through its narrow opening in my 

cell 
Moon after moon slow waning, when a sleep, 

That of the future burst the veil, in dream 
Visited me. It was a slumber deep 
And evil j for I saw, or I did seem 

To see that tyrant Lord his revels keep, 
The leader of the cruel hunt to them. 
Chasing the wolf and wolf-cubs up the 
steep 

Ascent, that from the Pisan is the screen 
Of Lucca ; with him Gualandi came, 
Sismondi, and Lanfranehi, bloodhounds lean. 

Trained to the sport and eager for the game. 
Wide ranging in his front j but soon were 

seen, 
Though by so short a course, with spirits 

tame, 



SONNET 



525 



The father and his whelps to flag at once, 
And then the sharp fangs gored their 

bosoms deep. 
Ere morn I roused myself, and heard my 

sons. 

For they were with me, moaning in their 

sleep, 
And begging bread. Ah for those darling 

ones ! 
Right cruel art thou, if thou dost not weep 

In thinking of my soul's sad augury ; 
And if thou weepest not now, weep never 

more ! 
They were already waked, as wont drew 

nigh 

The allotted hour for food, and in that hour 
Each drew a presage from his dream. 

When I 
Heard locked beneath me of that horrible 

tower 

The outlet ; then into their eyes alone 
I looked to read myself, without a sign 
Or word. I wept not — turned within to 
stone. 

They wept aloud, and little Anselm mine. 
Said, — 't was my youngest, dearest little 
one, — 

* What ails thee, father ! why look so at 

thine ? ' 

In all that day, and all the following night, 
I wept not, nor replied; but when to shine 
Upon the world, not us, came forth the 
light 

Of the new sun, and thwart my prison 
thrown 

Gleamed through its narrow chink, a dole- 
ful sight, 

Three faces, each the reflex of my own, 

Were imaged by its faint and ghastly ray ; 
Then I, of either hand unto the bone. 
Gnawed, in my agony; and thinking they 

'T was done from hunger pangs, in their 

excess, 
All of a sudden raise themselves, and say, 

* Father ! our woes, so great, were yet the 

less 



Would you but eat of us, — 't was you who 

clad 
Our bodies in these weeds ofitretchedness. 
Despoil them.^ Not to make their hearts 

more sad, 

I hushed myself. That day is at its 

close, — 
Another — still we were all mute. Oh, had 
The obdurate earth opened to end our 

woes ! 

The fourth day dawned, and when the new 

sun shone. 
Outstretched himself before me as it rose 
My Gaddo, saying, ' Help, father ! hast 

thou none 

* For thine own child — is there no help 

from thee ? ' 
He died — there at my feet — and one by 

one, 
I saw them fall, plainly as you see me. 

Between the fifth and sixth day, ere 't was 

dawn, 
I found myself blind-groping o'er the three. 
Three days I called them after they were 

gone. 

Famine of grief can get the mastery. 



SONNET 

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF 
CAVALCANTI 

GUIDO CAVALCANTI tO DANTE ALIGHIERI 

Published by Forman, 1876, and dated by 
him 1815. 

Returning from its daily quest, my Spirit 

Changed thoughts and vile in thee doth 
weep to find. 

It grieves me that thy mild and gentle 
mind 

Those ample virtues which it did inherit 

Has lost. Once thou didst loathe the mul- 
titude 

Of blind and madding men; I then loved 
thee — 

I loved thy lofty songs and that sweet 
mood 

When thou wert faithful to thyself and me. 



526 



TRANSLATIONS 



I dare not now through thy degraded state 
Own the delight thy strains inspire — in 

vain 
I seek what once thou wert — we cannot 

meet 
As we were wont. Again, and yet again, 
Ponder my words: so the false Spirit shall 

% 
And leave to thee thy true integrity. 

SCENES FROM THE MAGICO 
PRODIGIOSO 

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF 
CALDERON 

Shelley's acquaintance with Spanish began 
apparently with reading Calderon in company 
with Mrs. Gisborne in August, 1819, and under 
Charles Clairmont's friendly tutoring in Sep- 
tember of the same year. He wrote to Pea- 
cock in the former month : 

Shelley (from Leghorn) to Peacock, August 
22 (?), 1819 : ' I have been reading Calderon 
in Spanish [with Mrs. Gisborne]. A kind of 
Shakespeare is this Calderon ; and I have some 
thoughts, if I find that I cannot do anything 
better, of translating some of his plays ; ' and 
again in September : ' Charles Clairmont is 
now with us on his way to Vienna. He has 
spent a year or more in Spain, where he has 
learned Spanish, and I make him read Spanish 
all day long. It is a most powerful and ex- 
pressive language, and I have already learned 
sufficient to read with great ease their poet 
Calderon. I have read about twelve of his 
plays. Some of them certainly deserve to be 
ranked amongst the grandest and most perfect 
productions of the human mind. He exceeds 
all modern dramatists, with the exception of 
Shakespeare, whom he resembles, however, in 
the depth of thought and subtlety of imagina- 
tion of his writings, and in the rare power 
of interweaving delicate and powerful comic 
traits with the most tragical situations, without 
diminishing their interest. I rate him far above 
Beaumont and Fletcher.' Shelley translated 
these scenes in March, 1822, and they had not 
received his final correction. They were pub- 
lished by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 
1824. 

Scene I. — Enter Cyprian, dressed as a Stu- 
dent ; Clabin and MoscON as poor Scholars, 
with books. 

CYPRIAN 

In the sweet solitude of this calm place, 
This intricate wild wilderness of trees 



And flowers and undergrowth of odorous 

plants, 
Leave me; the books you brought out of 

the house 
To me are ever best society. 
And while with glorious festival and song, 
Antioch now celebrates the consecration 
Of a proud temple to great Jupiter, 
And bears his image in loud jubilee 
To its new shrine, I would consume what 

still 
Lives of the dying day in studious thought, 
Far from the throng and turmoil. You, 

my friends. 
Go, and enjoy the festival; it will 
Be worth your pains. You may return for 

me 
When the sun seeks its grave among the 

billows, 
Which among dim gray clouds on the hori- 
zon, 
Dance like white plumes upon a hearse; — 

and here 
I shall expect you. 

MOSCON 

I cannot bring my mind, 
Great as my haste to see the festival 
Certainly is, to leave you, Sir, without 
Just saying some three or four thousand 

words. 
How is it possible that on a day 
Of such festivity you can be content 
To come forth to a solitary country 
With three or four old books, and turn 

your back 
On all this mirth ? 

CLARIN 

My master 's in the right; 
There is not anything more tiresome 
Than a procession day, with troops, and 

priests. 
And dances, and all that. 

MOSCON 

From first to last, 
Clarin, you are a temporizing flatterer; 
You praise not what you feel but what he 

does. 
Toadeater ! 

CLARIN 

You lie — under a mistake — 
For this is the most civil sort of lie 



SCENES FROM THE MAGICO PRODIGIOSO 



527 



That can be given to a man's face. I now 
Say what I think. 

CYPRIAN 

Enough, you foolish fellows ! 
PufPed up with your own doting ignorance, 
You always take the two sides of one ques- 
tion. 
Now go; and as I said, return for me 
When night falls, veiling in its shadows 

wide 
This glorious fabric of the universe. 

MOSCON 

How happens it, although you can main- 
tain 
The folly of enjoying festivals, 
That yet you go there ? 

CLARIN 

Nay, the consequence 
Is clear. Who ever did what he advises 
Others to do ? — 

MOSCON 

Would that my feet were wings. 
So would I fly to Livia. 

[Exit. 

CLARIN 

To speak truth, 
Livia is she who has surprised my heart; 
But he is more than half way there. — Soho ! 
Livia, I come ; good sport, Livia, Soho ! 

[Exit. 

CYPRIAN 

Now, since I am alone, let me examine 
The question which has long disturbed my 

mind 
With doubt, since first I read in Plinius 
The words of mystic import and deep sense 
In which he defines God. My intellect 
Can find no God with whom these marks 

and signs 
Fitly agree. It is a hidden truth 
Which I must fathom. 

(Cyprian reads; the Demon, dressed in a 
Court dress, enters) 

DEMON 

Search even as thou wilt. 
But thou shalt never find what I can hide. 

CYPRIAN 

What noise is that among the boughs ? 

Who moves ? 
What art thou ? — 



DEMON 

'T is a foreign gentleman. 
Even from this morning I have lost my way 
In this wild place; and my poor horse at 

last. 
Quite overcome, has stretched himself upon 
The enamelled tapestry of this mossy moun- 
tain, 
And feeds and rests at the same time. I 

was 
Upon my way to Antioch upon business 
Of some importance, but wrapped up in 

cares 
(Who is exempt from this inheritance ?) 
I parted from my company, and lost 
My way, and lost my servants and my com- 
rades. 

CYPRIAN 

'T is singular that even within the sight 
Of the high towers of Antioch you could lose 
Your way. Of all the avenues and green 

paths 
Of this wild wood there is not one but leads. 
As to its centre, to the walls of Antioch; 
Take which you will you cannot miss your 

road. 

DEMON 

And such is ignorance ! Even in the sight 
Of knowledge, it can draw no profit from it. 
But as it still is early, and as I 
Have no acquaintances in Antioch, 
Being a stranger there, I will even wait 
The few surviving hours of the day. 
Until the night shall conquer it. I see. 
Both by your dress and by the books in 

which 
You find delight and company, that you 
Are a great student ; for my part, I feel 
Much sympathy with such pursuits. 



CYPRIAN 



Studied much ? 



Have you 



DEMON 

No, — and yet I know enough 
Not to be wholly ignorant. 



CYPRIAN 

What science may you know ? 

DEMON 



Pray, Sir, 
Many, 



528 



TRANSLATIONS 



CYPRIAN 

Alas! 
Much pains must we expend on one alone, 
And even then attain it not; but you 
Have the presumption to assert that you 
Know many without study. 

DEMON 

And with truth. 
For in the country whence I come the sci- 
ences 
Require no learning, — they are known. 

CYPRIAN 

Oh, would 
I were of that bright country ! for in this 
The more we study, we the more discover 
Our ignorance. 

DEMON 

It is so true, that I 
Had so much arrogance as to oppose 
The chair of the most high Professorship, 
And obtained many votes, and, though I 

lost, 
The attempt was still more glorious than 

the failure 
Could be dishonorable. If you believe not. 
Let us refer it to dispute respecting 
That which you know the best, and al- 
though I 
Know not the opinion you maintain, and 

though 
It be the true one, I will take the contrary. 

CYPRIAN 

The offer gives me pleasure. I am now 

Debating with myself upon a passage 

Of Plinius, and my mind is racked with 

doubt 
To understand and know who is the God 
Of whom he speaks. 

DEMON 

It is a passage, if 
I recollect it right, couched in these words: 
*God is one supreme goodness, one pure 

essence, 
One substance, and one sense, all sight, all 

hands.' 



*Tis true. 



CYPRIAN 
DEMON 

What difficulty find you here ? 



CYPRIA2f 

I do not recognize among the Gods 
The God defined by Plinius; if he must 
Be supreme goodness, even Jupiter 
Is not supremely good; because we see 
His deeds are evil, and his attributes 
Tainted with mortal weakness. In what 

manner 
Can supreme goodness be consistent with 
The passions of humanity ? 

DEMON 

The wisdom 
Of the old world masked with the names 

of Gods 
The attributes of Nature and of Man; 
A sort of popular philosophy. 

CYPRIAN 

This reply will not satisfy me, for 
Such awe is due to the high name of God 
That ill should never be imputed. Then, 
Examining the question with more care. 
It follows that the Gods would always will 
That which is best, were they supremely 

good. 
How then does one will one thing, one an- 
other ? 
And that you may not say that I allege 
Poetical or philosophic learning. 
Consider the ambiguous responses 
Of their oracular statues; from two shrines 
Two armies shall obtain the assurance of 
One victory. Is it not indisputable 
That two contending wills can never lead 
To the same end ? And, being opposite. 
If one be good is not the other evil ? 
Evil in God is inconceivable; 
But supreme goodness fails among the 

Gods 
Without their union. 

DEMON 

I deny your major. 
These responses are means towards some 

end 
Unfathomed by our intellectual beam. 
They are the work of providence, and more 
The battle's loss may profit those who lose 
Than victory advantage those who win. 

CYPRIAN 

That I admit; and yet that God should not 
(Falsehood is incompatible with deity) 
Assure the victory; it would be enough 



SCENES FROM THE MAGICO PRODIGIOSO 



529 



To have permitted the defeat. If God 
Be all sight, — God, who had beheld the 

truth, 
Would not have given assurance of an end 
Never to be accomplished; thus, although 
The Deity may according to his attributes 
Be well distinguished into persons, yet 
Even in the minutest circumstance 
His essence must be one. 

DEMON 

To attain the end 
The affections of the actors in the scene 
Must have been thus influenced by his voice. 

CYPRIAN 

But for a purpose thus subordinate 

He might have employed Genii, good or 

evil, — 
A sort of spirits called so by the learned, 
Who roam about inspiring good or evil. 
And from whose influence and existence we 
May well infer our immortality. 
Thus God might easily, without descent 
To a gross falsehood in his proper person. 
Have moved the affections by this media- 
tion 
To the just point. 

DEMON 

These trifling contradictions 
Do not suffice to impugn the unity 
Of the high Gods; in things of great im- 
portance 
They still appear unanimous; consider 
That glorious fabric, man, — his workman- 
ship 
Is stamped with one conception. 

CYPRIAN 

Who made man 
Must have, methinks, the advantage of the 

others. 
If they are equal, might they not have risen 
In opposition to the work, and being 
All hands, according to our author here, 
Have still destroyed even as the other 

made ? 
If equal in their power, unequal only 
In opportunity, which of the two 
Will remain conqueror ? 

DEMON 

On impossible 
And false hypothesis there can be built 



No argument. Say, what do you infer 
From this ? 

CYPRIAN 

That there must be a mighty God 
Of supreme goodness and of highest grace, 
All sight, all hands, all truth, infallible, 
Without an equal and without a rival. 
The cause of all things and the effect of 

nothing. 
One power, one will, one substance, and 

one essence. 
And in whatever persons, one or two, 
His attributes may be distinguished, one 
Sovereign power, one solitary essence, 
One cause of all cause. 

{They rise) 



DEMON 



So clear a consequence ? 



How can I impugn 



CYPRIAN 



My victory ? 



Do you regret 



DEMON 

Who but regrets a check 
In rivalry of wit ? I could reply 
And urge new difficulties, but will now 
Depart, for I hear steps of men approach- 

And it is time that I should now pursue 
My journey to the city. 



CYPRIAN 



Go 



in peace 



DEMON 

Remain in peace ! — Since thus it profits 

him 
To study, I will wrap his senses up 
In sweet oblivion of all thought but of 
A piece of excellent beauty; and, as I 
Have power given me to wage enmity 
Against Justina's soul, I will extract 
From one effect two vengeances. 

[Aside and exit. 

CYPRIAN 

I never 
Met a more learned person. Let me now 
Revolve this doubt again with careful 
mind. 

[^He reads. 



530 



TRANSLATIONS 



Floro and Lelio enter 

LELIO 

Here stop. These toppling rocks and tan- 
gled boughs, 
Impenetrable by the noonday beam, 
Shall be sole witnesses of what we — 

FliORO 

Draw ! 
If there were words, here is the place for 
deeds. 

LELIO 

Thou needest not instruct me; well I 

know 
That in the field the silent tongue of steel 
Speaks thus, — 

[Theyjight 

CYPRLA.N 

Ha ! what is this ? Lelio, — Floro, — 
Be it enough that Cyprian stands between 

Although unarmed. 

LELIO 

Whence comest thou to stand 
Between me and my vengeance ? 



FLORO 



From what rocks 



And desert cells ? 

Enter Moscon and Clarin 

MOSCON 

Run ! run ! for where we left 
My master, I now hear the clash of swords. 

CLARIN 

I never run to approach things of this 

sort, 
But only to avoid them. Sir ! Cyprian ! 

sir! 

CYPRIAN 

Be silent, fellows ! What ! two friends 

who are 
In blood and fame the eyes and hope of 

Antioch, 
One of the noble race of the Colalti, 
The other son o' the Governor, adventure 
And cast away, on some slight cause no 

doubt, 
Two lives, the honor of their country ? 



LELIO 

Cyprian \ 
Although my high respect towards youi 

person 
Holds now my sword suspended, thou canst 

not 
Restore it to the slumber of the scabbard: 
Thou knowest more of science than the duel; 
For when two men of honor take the field, 
No counsel nor respect can make them 

friends 
But one must die in the dispute. 

FLORO 

I pray 
That you depart hence with your people, 

and 
Leave us to finish what we have begun 
Without advantage. 

CYPRIAN 

Though you may imagine 
That I know little of the laws of duel. 
Which vanity and valor instituted. 
You are in error. By my birth I am 
Held no less than yourselves to know the 

limits 
Of honor and of infamy, nor has study 
Quenched the free spirit which first ordered 

them ; 
And thus to me, as one well experienced 
In the false quicksands of the sea of honor. 
You may refer the merits of the case; 
And if I should perceive in your relation 
That either has the right to satisfaction 
From the other, I give you my word of 

honor 
To leave you. 

LELIO 

Under this condition then 
I will relate the cause, and you will cede 
And must confess the impossibility 
Of compromise; for the same lady is 
Beloved by Floro and myself. 

FLORO 

It seems 
Much to me that the light of day should 

look 
Upon that idol of my heart — but he — 
Leave us to fight, according to thy word. 

CYPRIAN 

Permit one question further: is the lady 
Impossible to hope or not ? 



SCENES FROM THE MAGICO PRODIGIOSO 



531 



LELIO 

She is 
So excellent that if the light of day 
Should excite Floro's jealousy, it were 
Without just cause, for even the light of 

day 
Trembles to gaze on her. 



Part, marry her ? 



And you ? 



CYPRIAN 

Would you for your 

FLORO 

Such is my confidence. 

CYPRIAN 
LELIO 

Oh ! would that I could lift my hope 
So high, for though she is extremely poor, 
Her virtue is her dowry. 

CYPRIAN 

And if you both 
Would marry her, is it not weak and vain, 
Culpable and unworthy, thus beforehand 
To slur her honor ? What would the 

world say 
If one should slay the other, and if she 
Should afterwards espouse the murderer ? 

[The rivals agree to refer their quarrel to Cy- 
prian ; who in consequence visits Jdstina, 
and becomes enamoured of her : she disdains 
hiyn, and he retires to a solitary seashore. 

SCENE II 

CYPRIAN 

O memory ! permit it not 

That the tyrant of my thought 

Be another soul that still 

Holds dominion o'er the will, 

That would refuse, but can no more, 

To bend, to tremble, and adore. 

Vain idolatry ! — I saw. 

And gazing, became blind with error; 

Weak ambition, which the awe 

Of her presence bound to terror ! 

So beautiful she was — and I, 

Between my love and jealousy, 

Am so convulsed with hope and fear, 

Unworthy as it may appear. 

So bitter is the life I live, 

That, hear me. Hell ! I now would give 



To thy most detested spirit 

My soul, forever to inherit, 

To suffer punishment and pine. 

So this woman may be mine. 

Hear'st thou. Hell ! dost thou reject it ? 

My soul is offered ! 

DEMON (unseen) 

I accept it. 
[Tempest, with thunder and lightning. 

CYPRIAN 

What is this ? ye heavens forever pure. 
At once intensely radiant and obscure ! 
Athwart the ethereal halls 
The lightning's arrow and the thunder- 
balls 
The day affright, 
As from the horizon round 
Burst with earthquake sound 
In mighty torrents the electric fountains; 
Clouds quench the sun, and thunder smoke 
Strangles the air, and fire eclipses heaven. 
Philosophy, thou canst not even 
Compel their causes underneath thy yoke; 
From yonder clouds even to the waves 
below 
The fragments of a single ruin choke 

Imagination's flight; 
For, on flakes of surge, like feathers light, 
The ashes of the desolation, cast 

Upon the gloomy blast, 
Tell of the footsteps of the storm ; 
And nearer, see, the melancholy form 
Of a great ship, the outcast of the sea. 

Drives miserably ! 
And it must fly the pity of the port, 
Or perish, and its last and sole resort 
Is its own raging enemy. 
The terror of the thrilling cry 
Was a fatal prophecy 
Of coming death, who hovers now 
Upon that shattered prow, 
That they who die not may be dying still. 
And not alone the insane elements 
Are populous with wide portents. 
But that sad ship is as a miracle 

Of sudden ruin, for it drives so fast 
It seems as if it had arrayed its form 
With the headlong storm. 
It strikes — I almost feel the shock — 
It stumbles on a jagged rock, — 

Sparkles of blood on the white foam are 
cast. 

[A Tempest. 



532 



TRANSLATIONS 



All exclaim (within) 
We are all lost ! 

DEMON (within) 
Now from this plank will I 
Pass to the land and thus fulfil my scheme. 

CYPRIAN 

As in contempt of the elemental rage 
A man comes forth in safety, while the 

ship's 
Great form is in a watery eclipse 
Obliterated from the Ocean's page, 
And round its wreck the huge sea-monsters 

sit, 
A horrid conclave, and the whistling wave 
Is heaped over its carcass, like a grave. 

The Demon enters, as escaped from the sea 

DEMON (aside) 

It was essential to my purposes 

To wake a tumult on the sapphire ocean, 

That in this unknown form I might at 

length 
Wipe out the blot of the discomfiture 
Sustained upon the mountain, and assail 
With a new war the soul of Cyprian, 
Forging the instruments of his destruction 
Even from his love and from his wis- 
dom. — O 
Beloved earth, dear Mother, in thy bosom 
I seek a refuge from the monster who 
Precipitates itself upon me. 

CYPRIAN 

Friend, 
Collect thyself; and be the memory 
Of thy late suffering, and thy greatest sor- 
row 
But as a shadow of the past, — for nothing 
Beneath the circle of the moon but flows 
And changes, and can never know repose. 

DEMON 

And who art thou, before whose feet my 

fate 
Has prostrated me ? 

CYPRIAN 

One who, moved with pity. 
Would soothe its stings. 

DEMON 

Oh ! that can never be ! 
No solace can my lasting sorrows find. 



Wherefore ? 



CYPRIAN 



DEMON 



Because my happiness is lost. 
Yet I lament what has long ceased to be 
The object of desire or memory. 
And my life is not life. 

CYPRIAN 

Now, since the fury 
Of this earthquaking hurricane is still, 
And the crystalline heaven has reassumed 
Its windless calm so quickly that it seems 
As if its heavy wrath had been awakened 
Only to overwhelm that vessel, — speak. 
Who art thou, and whence comest thou ? 

DEMON 

Far more 
My coming hither cost than thou hast seen 
Or I can tell. Among my misadventures 
This shipwreck is the least. Wilt thou 
hear ? 



CYPRIAN 



DEMON^ 



Speak. 



Since thou desirest, I will then unveil 

Myself to thee ; for in myself I am 

A world of happiness and misery; 

This I have lost, and that I must lament 

Forever. In my attributes I stood 

So high and so heroically great. 

In lineage so supreme, and with a genius 

Which penetrated with a glance the world 

Beneath my feet, that, won by my high 

merit, 
A king — whom I may call the King of 

kings. 
Because all others tremble in their pride 
Before the terrors of his countenance, 
In his high palace roofed with brightest 

gems 
Of living light — call them the stars of 

Heaven — 
Named me his counsellor. But the high 

praise 
Stung me with pride and envy, and I rose 
In mighty competition to ascend 
His seat, and place my foot triumphantly 
Upon his subject thrones. Chastised, I 

know 
The depth to which ambition falls; too mad 
Was the attempt, and yet more mad were 

now 



SCENES FROM THE MAGICO PRODIGIOSO 



533 



Repentance of the irrevocable deed. 
Therefore I chose this ruin, with the glory 
Of not to be subdued, before the shame 
Of reconciling me with him who reigns 
By coward cession. Nor was I alone, 
Nor am I now, nor shall I be alone ; 
And there was hope, and there may still be 

hope. 
For many suffrages among his vassals 
Hailed me their lord and king, and many 

still 
Are mine, and many more perchance shall 

be. 
Thus vanquished, though in fact victorious, 
I left his seat of empire, from mine eye 
Shooting forth poisonous lightning, while 

my words 
With inauspicious thunderings shook Hea- 
ven, 
Proclaiming vengeance public as my wrong, 
And imprecating on his prostrate slaves 
Rapine, and death, and outrage. Then I 

sailed 
Over the mighty fabric of the world, — 
A pirate ambushed in its pathless sands, 
A lynx crouched watchfully among its caves 
And craggy shores; and I have wandered 

over 
The expanse of these wide wildernesses 
In this great ship, whose bulk is now dis- 
solved 
In the light breathings of th^ invisible 

wind. 
And which the sea has made a dustless 

ruin. 
Seeking ever a mountain, through whose 

forests 
I seek a man, whom I must now compel 
To keep his word with me. I came ar- 
rayed 
In tempest, and, although my power oould 

well 
Bridle the forest winds in their career. 
For other causes I forbore to soothe 
Their fury to Favonian gentleness; 
I could and would not; (thus I wake in 
him [Aside. 

A love of magic art). Let not this tem- 
pest. 
Nor the succeeding calm excite thy wonder; 
For by my art the sun would turn as pale 
As his weak sister with unwonted fear; 
And in my wisdom are the orbs of Hea- 
ven 
Written as in a record; I have pierced 



The flaming circles of their wondrous 

spheres 
And know them as thou knowest every 

corner 
Of this dim spot. Let it not seem to thee 
That I boast vainly; wouldst thou that I 

work 
A charm over this waste and savage wood, 
This Babylon of crags and aged trees. 
Filling its leafy coverts with a horror 
Thrilling and strange ? I am the friend- 
less guest 
Of these wild oaks and pines; and as from 

thee 
I have received the hospitality 
Of this rude place, I offer thee the fruit 
Of years of toil in recompense; whate'er 
Thy wildest dream presented to thy 

thought 
As object of desire, that shall be thine. 

And thenceforth shall so firm an amity 
'Twixt thee and me be, that neither for- 
tune. 
The monstrous phantom which pursues 

success. 
That careful miser, that free prodigal. 
Who ever alternates with changeful hand 
Evil and good, reproach and fame; nor 

Time, 
That lodestar of the ages, to whose beam 
The winged years speed o'er the intervals 
Of their unequal revolutions; nor 
Heaven itself, whose beautiful bright stars 
Rule and adorn the world, can ever make 
The least division between thee and me, 
Since now I find a refuge in thy favor. 



Scene III. 



TTie Demon tempts Justina, who 
is a Christian. 



demon 



Abyss of Hell ! I call on thee, 

Thou wild misrule of thine own anarchy ! 

From thy prison-house set free 

The spirits of voluptuous death 

That with their mighty breath 

They may destroy a world of virgin 

thoughts ; 
Let her chaste mind with fancies thick as 

motes 
Be peopled from thy shadowy deep, 
Till her guiltless fantasy 
Full to overflowing be ! 



534 



TRANSLATIONS 



And with sweetest harmony, 

Let birds, and flowers, and leaves, and all 
things move 
To love, only to love. 

Let nothing meet her eyes 

But signs of Love's soft victories; 

Let nothing^ meet her ear 

But sounds of Love's sweet sorrow, 

So that from faith no succor she may bor- 
row. 

But, guided by my spirit blind 

And in a magic snare entwined, 
She may now seek Cyprian. 

Begin, while I in silence bind 

My voice, when thy sweet song thou hast 
began. 

A VOICE (within) 
What is the glory far above 
All else in human life ? 



AliL 



Love ! love ! 



l^While these words are sung, the Demon goes out 
at one door, and Justina enters at another. 

THE FIRST VOICE 

There is no form in which the fire 
Of love its traces has impressed not. 

Man lives far more in love's desire 
Than by life's breath, soon possessed 
not. 

If all that lives must love or die, 

All shapes on earth, or sea, or sky, 

With one consent to Heaven cry 

That the glory far above 

All else in life is — 



ALL 



Love ! O, love ! 



JUSTINA 

Thou melancholy thought which art 
So flattering and so sweet, to thee 
When did I give the liberty 

Thus to afflict my heart ? 

What is the cause of this new power 
Which doth my fevered being move. 

Momently raging more and more ? 
What subtle pain is kindled now 
Which from my heart doth overflow 

Into my senses ? — 



ALL 



Love, O, love ! 



JUSTINA 

'T is that enamoured nightingale 

Who gives me the reply; 
He ever tells the same soft tale 

Of passion and of constancy 
To his mate, who, rapt and fond, 
Listening sits, a bough beyond. 

Be silent. Nightingale — no more 
Make me think, in hearing thee 

Thus tenderly thy love deplore, 
If a bird can feel his so, 
What a man would feel for me. 
And, voluptuous Vine, O thou 

Who seekest most when least pursuing, — 
To the trunk thou interlacest 
Art the verdure which embracest. 

And the weight which is its ruin, — 

No more, with green embraces, Vine, 
Make me think on what thou lovest, — 

For whilst thus thy boughs entwine, 

I fear lest thou shouldst teach me, 
sophist. 

How arms might be entangled too. 

Light-enchanted Sunflower, thou 
Wlio gazest ever true and tender 
On the sun's revolving splendor ! 
Follow not his faithless glance 
With thy faded countenance. 
Nor teach my beating heart to fear, 
If leaves can mourn without a tear, 
How eyes must weep ! O Nightingale, 
Cease from thy enamoured tale, — 
Leafy Vine, unwreathe thy bower, 
Restless Sunflower, cease to move, — 
Or tell me all, what poisonous power 
Ye use against me — 



ALL 



Love ! love ! love ! 

JUSTINA 

It cannot be ! — Whom have I ever loved ? 
Trophies of my oblivion and disdain, 
Floro and Lelio did I not reject ? 
And Cyprian ? — 

{She becomes troubled at the name of Cyprian.) 

Did I not requite him 
With such severity that he has fled 
Where none has ever heard of him again ? — 
Alas ! I now begin to fear that this 
May be the occasion whence desire grows 
bold. 



SCENES FROM THE MAGICO PRODIGIOSO 



535 



As if there were no danger. From the 

moment 
That I pronounced to my own listening 

heart 
Cyprian is absent, — oh, me miserable ! 
I know not what I feel ! 

\_More calmly. 

It must be pity 

To think that such a man whom all the 

world 
Admired should be forgot by all the world, 
And I the cause. 

[She again becomes troubled. 
And yet if it were pity, 
Floro and Lelio might have equal share. 
For they are both imprisoned for my sake. 

[Calmly. 
Alas ! what reasonings are these ? it is 
Enough I pity him, and that, in vain, 
Without this ceremonious subtlety. 
And, woe is me ! I know not where to find 

him now. 
Even should 1 seek him through this wide 
world. 

Enter Demon 

DEMON 

Follow, and I will lead thee where he is. 

JUSTINA 

And who art thou who hast found entrance 

hither 
Into my chamber through the doors and 

locks ? 
Art thou a monstrous shadow which my 

madness 
Has formed in the idle air ? 

DEMON 

No. I am one 
Called by the thought which tyrannizes thee 
From his eternal dwelling; who this day 
Is pledged to bear thee unto Cyprian. 

JUSTINA 

So shall thy promise fail. This agony 
Of passion which afflicts my heart and soul 
May sweep imagination in its storm; 
The will is firm. 

DEMON 

Already half is done 
In the imagination of an act. 
The sin incurred, the pleasure then remains; 
Let not the will stop half-way on the road. 



JUSTINA 

I will not be discouraged, nor despair, 
Although I thought it, and although 'tis 

true 
That thought is but a prelude to the deed. 
Thought is not in my power, but action is. 
I will not move my foot to follow thee. 

DEMON 

But a far mightier wisdom than thine own 
Exerts itself within thee, with such power 
Compelling thee to that which it inclines 
That it shall force thy step; how wilt thou 

then 
Resist, Justina ? 

JUSTINA 

By my free-will. 

DEMON 

Must force thy will. 

JUSTINA 

It is invincible; 
It were not free if thou hadst power upon it- 
[He draws, but cannot move her 

DEMON 

Come, where a pleasure waits thee. 



JUSTINA 



Too dear. 



It were bought 



DEMON 

'T will soothe thy heart to softest peace. 

JUSTINA 

'T is dread captivity. 

DEMON 

'T is joy, 't is glory. 

JUSTINA 

'T is shame, 't is torment, 't is despair. 

DEMON 

But how 
Canst thou defend thyself from that or me, 
If my power drags thee onward ? 

JUSTINA 

My defence 

Consists in God. 

[He vainly endeavors to force her, and at last re- 
leases her. 



536 



TRANSLATIONS 



DEMON 

Woman, thou hast subdued me 
Only by not owning thyself subdued. 
But since thou thus findest defence in God, 
I will assume a feigned form, and thus 
Make thee a victim of my baffled rage. 
For I will mask a spirit in thy form 
Who will betray thy name to infamy, 
And doubly shall I triumph in thy loss, 
First by dishonoring thee, and then by 

turning 
False pleasure to true ignominy. 

[Exit. 

JUSTINA 

I 

Appeal to Heaven against thee; so that 

Heaven 
May scatter thy delusions, and the blot 
Upon my fame vanish in idle thought, 
Even as flame dies in the envious air, 
And as the floweret wanes at morning frost, 
And thou shouldst never — But, alas ! to 

whom 
Do I still speak ? — Did not a man but 

now 
Stand here before me ? — No, I am alone. 
And yet I saw him. Is he gone so quickly ? 
Or can the heated mind engender shapes 
From its own fear ? Some terrible and 

strange 
Peril is near. Lisander ! father ! lord ! 
Livia ! — 

Enter Lisander and Livia 

LISANDER 

Oh, my daughter ! What ? 



LIVIA 
JUSTINA 



What? 



Saw you 
A man go forth from my apartment now ? — 
I scarce contain myself ! 



LISANDER 
JUSTINA 

Have you not seen him ? 

LIVIA 



A man here I 



No, Lady. 



JUSTINA 



I saw him. 



LISANDER 

'Tis impossible; the doors 
Which led to this apartment were all 
locked. 

LIVIA {aside) 

I dare say it was Moscon whom she saw, 
For he was locked up in my room. 

LISANDER 

It must 
Have been some image of thy fantasy. 
Such melancholy as thou feedest is 
Skilful in forming such in the vain air 
Out of the motes and atoms of the day. 

LIVIA 

My master 's in the right. 

JUSTINA 

Oh, would it were 
Delusion; but I fear some greater ill. 
I feel as if out of my bleeding bosom 
My heart was torn in fragments; ay. 
Some mortal spell is wrought against my 

frame ; 
So potent was the charm that, had not God 
Shielded my humble innocence from wrong, 
I should have sought my sorrow and my 

shame 
With willing steps. — Livia, quick, bring 

my cloak, 
For I must seek refuge from these extremes 
Even in the temple of the highest God 
Where secretly the faithful worship. 



LIVIA 



Here. 



JUSTINA (putting on her cloak) 

In this, as in a shroud of snow, may I 
Quench the consuming fire in which I burn. 
Wasting away ! 

LISANDER 

And I will go with thee. 

LIVIA 

When I once see them safe out of the house 
I shall breathe freely. 

JUSTINA 

So do I confide 
In thy just favor, Heaven ! 



LISANDER 



Let us go. 



SCENES FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE 



S37 



JUSTINA 

Thine is the cause, great God ! turn for my 

sake, 
And for thine own, mercifully to me ! 

STANZAS FROM CALDERON'S 
CISMA DE INGLATERRA 

TRANSLATED BY MEDWIN AND COR- 
RECTED BY SHELLEY 

Medwin published these stanzas, with Shel- 
ley's corrections in italics, in his Life of Shelley, 
1847, with the following- note : ' But we also 
read a tragedy of Calderon's which, though it 
cannot compete with Shakespeare's Henry the 
VIII. contains more poetry — the Cisma 
d^Inglaterra. Shelley was much struck with 
the characteristic Fool who plays a part in it, 
and deals in fables, but more so with the 
octave stanzas (a strange metre in a drama, to 
choose) spoken by Carlos, enamorado di Anna 
Bolena, whom he had met at Paris, during her 
father's embassy. So much did Shelley admire 
these stanzas that he copied them out into one 
of his letters to Mrs. Gisborne, of the two last 
of which I append a translation marking in 
italics the lines corrected by Shelley.' He had 
previously published these stanzas with nine 
others in Sketches in Hindoostan, with Other 
Poems, 1821. Forman conjectures that Shel- 
ley cooperated with Medwin in the other 
stanzas, where no credit has been given. 

Shelley's letter to Mrs. Gisborne was of the 
date November 16, 1819 : ' I have been reading 
Calderon without you. I have read the Cisma 
de Inglaterra, the Cabellos de Absalom, and 
three or four others. These pieces, inferior to 
those we read, at least to the Principe Con- 
stante, in the splendor of particular passages, 
are perhaps superior in their satisfying com- 
pleteness. ... I transcribe you a passage from 
the Cisma de Inglaterra — spoken by " Carlos, 
Embaxador de Francia, enamorado de Ana 
Bolena." Is there anything in Petrarch finer 
than the second stanza ? ' 



Hast thou not seen, officious with delight, 
Move through the illumined air about 
the flower 
The Bee, that fears to drink its purple 
light. 
Lest danger lurk within that Rose's 
bower ? 
Hast thou not marked the moth's enam- 
oured flight 
About the Taper's flame at evening hour, 



Till kindle in that monumental fire 

His sunflower wings their own funereal pyre 'f 

II 

My heart, its wishes trembling to unfold. 
Thus round the Rose and Taper hover- 
ing came, 
And Passion's slave, Distrust, in ashes cold. 
Smothered awhile, hut could not quench the 
flame. 
Till Love, that grows by disappointment 
bold. 
And Opportunity, had conquered Shame, 
And like the Bee and Moth, in act to close, 
/ burned my wings, and settled on the Rose* 



SCENES FROM THE FAUST OF 
GOETHE 

These scenes were translated in the spring 
of 1822, and published, in part, by Hunt, The 
Liberal, 1822, and entire by Mrs. Shelley, 
Posthumous Poems, 1824. The admiration of 
Shelley for Faust, and his feeling with regard 
to the translation, are fully shown in two let- 
ters to Mr. Gisborne, one in January, 1822 : 
' We have just got the etchings of Faust, the 
painter is worthy of Goethe. The meeting of 
him and Margaret is wonderful. It makes all 
the pulses of my head beat — those of my 
heart have been quiet long ago. The transla- 
tions, both these and in Blackwood, are miser- 
able. Ask Coleridge if their stupid misintel- 
ligence of the deep wisdom and harmony of 
the author does not spur him to action ; ' the 
second, April 10, 1822 : ' I have been reading 
over and over again Faust, and always with 
sensations which no other composition excites. 
It deepens the gloom and augments the rapid- 
ity of ideas, and would therefore seem to me 
an unfit study for any person who is a prey to 
the reproaches of memory, and the delusiona 
of an imagination not to be restrained. And 
yet the pleasure of sympathizing with emotions 
known only to few, although they derive their 
sole charm from despair, and the scorn of the 
narrow good we can attain in our present state, 
seems more than to ease the pain which be- 
longs to them. . . . 

' Have you read Calderon's Magico Prodigi- 
oso ? I find a striking similarity between 
Faust and this drama, and if I were to ac- 
knowledge Coleridge's distinction, should say 
Goethe was the greatest philosopher, and Cal- 
deron the greatest poet. Cyprian evidently 
furnished the germ of Faust, as Faust may 
furnish the germ of other poems ; although it 
is as different from it in structure and plan as 



538 



TRANSLATIONS 



the acorn from the oak. I have — imagine ray 
presumption — translated several scenes from 
both, as the basis of a paper for our journal. 
I am well content with those from Calderon, 
which in fact gave me verv little trouble ; but 
those from Faust — I feel how imperfect a re- 
presentation, even with all the license I assume 
to figure to myself how Goethe would have 
written in English, my words convey. No one 
but Coleridge is capable of this work. 

' We have seen here a translation of some 
scenes, and indeed the most remarkable ones, 
accompanying those astonishing etchings which 
have been published in England from a German 
master. It is not bad — and faithful enough 
— but how weak ! how incompetent to repre- 
sent Faust ! I have only attempted the scenes 
omitted in this translation, and would send you 
that of the Walpurgisnacht, if I thought Oilier 
would p^ace the postage to my account. What 
etchings those are ! I am never satiated with 
looking at them ; and, I fear, it is the only 
sort of translation of which Faust is suscepti- 
ble. I never perfectly understood the Hartz 
Mountain scene, until I saw the etching ; and 
then, Margaret in the summer-house with 
Faust! The artist makes one envy his happi- 
ness that he can sketch such things with calm- 
ness, which I only dared look upon once, and 
which made iny brain swim round only to touch 
the leaf on the opposite side of which I knew 
that it was figured. Whether it is that the 
artist has surpassed Faust, or that the pencil 
surpasses language in some subjects, I know 
not, or that I am more affected by a visible 
image, but the etching certainly excited me 
far more than the poem it illustrated. Do you 
remember the fifty-fourth letter of the first 
part of the Nouvelle Helo'ise ? Goethe, in a 
subsequent scene, evidently had that letter in 
his mind, and this etching is an idealism of it. 
So much for the world of shadows ! ' 



Scene I. — Prologue in Heaven. 



The Lord and the Host of Heaven. 
Archangels. 



Enter three 



RAPHAEL 



The sun makes music as of old 

Amid the rival spheres of Heaven, 
On its predestined circle rolled 

With thunder speed: the Angels even 
Draw strength from gazing on its glance, 

Though none its meaning fathom 
may; 
The world's unwithered countenance 

Is bright as at creation's day. 



GABRIEL 

And swift and swift, with rapid lightness, 

The adorned Earth spins silently, 
Alternating Elysian brightness 

With deep and dreadful night; the sea 
Foams in broad billows from the deep 

Up to the rocks, and rocks and ocean, 
Onward, with spheres which never sleep, 

Are hurried in eternal motion. 

MICHAEL 

And tempests in contention roar 

From land to sea, from sea to land; 
And, raging, weave a chain of power, 

Which girds the earth, as with a band. 
A flashing desolation there 

Flames before the thunder's way; 
But thy servants. Lord, revere 

The gentle changes of thy day. 

CHORUS OF THE THREE 

The Angels draw strength from thy glance, 
Though no one comprehend thee may; 

Thy world's unwithered countenance 
Is bright as on creation's day. 

£nter Mephistopheles 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

As thou, O Lord, once more art kind 

enough 
To interest thyself in our affairs, 
And ask, ' How goes it with you there be- 
low ? ' 
And as indulgently at other times 
Thou tookest not my visits in ill part. 
Thou seest me here once more among thy 

household. 
Though I should scandalize this company, 
You will excuse me if I do not talk 
In the high style which they think fashion- 
able; 
My pathos certainly would make you laugh 

too, 
Had you not long since given over laugh- 
ing. 
Nothing know I to say of suns and worlds; 
I observe only how men plague themselves. 
The little god o' the world keeps the same 

stamp. 
As wonderful as on creation's day. 
A little better would he live, hadst thou 
Not given him a glimpse of Heaven's 

light. 
Which be calls reason, and employs it only 



SCENES FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE 



539 



To live more beastlily than any beast. 

With reverence to your Lordship be it 
spoken, 

He 's like one of those long-legged grass- 
hoppers, 

Who flits and jumps about, and sings for- 
ever 

The same old song i' the grass. There let 
him lie. 

Burying his nose in every heap of dung. 

THE LORD 

Have you no more to say ? Do you come 

here 
Always to scold, and cavil, and complain ? 
Seems nothing ever right to you on earth ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

No, Lord ! I find all there, as ever, bad 

at best. 
Even I am sorry for man's days of sorrow; 
I could myself almost give up the pleasure 
Of plaguing the poor things. 

THE LORD 

Knowest thou Faust ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

The Doctor ? 

THE LORD 

Ay; my servant Faust. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

In truth 
He serves you in a fashion quite his own; 
And the fool's meat and drink are not of 

earth. 
His aspirations bear him on so far 
That he is half aware of his own folly, 
For he demands from Heaven its fairest 

star. 
And from the earth the highest joy it 

bears, 
Yet all things far, and all things near, are 

vain 
To calm the deep emotions of his breast. 

THE LORD 

Though he now serves me in a cloud of 
error, 

I will soon lead him forth to the clear day. 

When trees look green, full well the gar- 
dener knows 

That fruits and blooms will deck the com- 
ing year. 



MEPHISTOPHELES 

What will you bet ? — now I am sure of 

winning — 
Only, observe you give me full permission 
To lead him softly on my path. 

THE LORD 

As long 
As he shall live upon the earth, so long 
Is nothing unto thee forbidden. Man 
Must err till he has ceased to struggle. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Thanks. 
And that is all I ask; for willingly 
I never make acquaintance with the dead. 
The full fresh cheeks of youth are food for 

me, 
And if a corpse knocks, I am not at home. 
For I am like a cat — I like to play 
A little with the mouse before I eat it. 

THE LORD 

Well, well ! it is permitted thee. Draw 
thou 

His spirit from its springs ; as thou find'st 
power, 

Seize him and lead him on thy downward 
path ; 

And stand ashamed when failure teaches 
thee 

That a good man, even in his darkest long- 
ings, 

Is well aware of the right way. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Well and good. 
I am not in much doubt about my bet, 
And if I lose, then 't is your turn to crow; 
Enjoy your triumph then with a full breast. 
Ay; dust shall he devour, and that with 

pleasure, 
Like my old paramour, the famous Snake. 

THE LORD 

Pray come here when it suits you; for I 

never 
Had much dislike for people of your sort. 
And, among all the Spirits who rebelled. 
The kna,ve was ever the least tedious to 

me. 
The active spirit of man soon sleeps, and 

soon 
He seeks unbroken quiet; therefore I 
Have given him the Devil for a compao' 

ioHt 



540 



TRANSLATIONS 



Who may provoke him to some sort of 

work, 
And must create forever. — But ye, pure 
Children of God, enjoy eternal beauty. 
Let that which ever operates and lives 
Clasp you within the limits of its love; 
And seize with sweet and melancholy 

thoughts 
The floating phantoms of its loveliness. 

[Heaven closes; the Archangels exeunt, 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

From time to time I visit the old fellow. 
And I take care to keep on good terms 

with him. 
Civil enough is this same God Almighty, 
To talk so freely with the Devil himself. 



SCENE II 

MAY-DAY NIGHT 

SCBNB — The Hartz Mountain, a desolate 
Country 

FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES 
MEPHISTOPHELES 

Would you not like a broomstick ? As for 

me 
I wish I had a good stout ram to ride; 
For we are still far from the appointed 

place. 

FAUST 

This knotted staff is help enough for me, 
Whilst I feel fresh upon my legs. What 

good 
Is there in making short a pleasant way ? 
To creep along the labyrinths of the vales, 
And climb those rocks, where ever-bab- 
bling springs 
Precipitate themselves in waterfalls, 
Is the true sport that seasons such a path. 
Already Spring kindles the birchen spray. 
And the hoar pines already feel her breath. 
Shall she not work also within our limbs ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Nothing of such an influence do I feel. 

My body is all wintry, and I wish 

The flowers upon our path were frost and 

snow. 
But see how melancholy rises now, 
Dimly uplifting her belated beam, 



The blank unwelcome round of the red 

moon. 
And gives so bad a light that every step 
One stumbles 'gainst some crag. With 

your permission, 
I '11 call an Ignis-fatuus to our aid. 
I see one yonder burning jollily. 
Halloo, my friend ! may I request that you 
Would favor us with your bright company ? 
Why should you blaze away there to no 

purpose ? 
Pray be so good as light us up this way 

IGNIS-FATUUS 

With reverence be it spoken, I will try 
To overcome the lightness of my nature; 
Our course, you know, is generally zigzag. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Ha, ha ! your worship thinks you have to 

deal 
With men. Go straight on, in the Devil's 

name. 
Or I shall puff your flickering life out. 

IGNIS-FATUUS 

Well, 
I see you are the master of the house; 
I will accommodate myself to you. 
Only consider that to-night this mountain 
Is all enchanted, and if Jack-a-lantern 
Shows you his way, though you should miss 

your own. 
You ought not to be too exact with him. 

FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, and IGNIS-FATUUS, tW 

alternate Chorus 
The limits of the sphere of dream, 

The bounds of true and false, are 
passed. 
Lead us on, thou wandering Gleam, 
Lead us onward, far and fast, 
To the wide, the desert waste. 

But see, how swift advance and shift 

Trees behind trees, row by row; 
How, clift by clift, rocks bend and lift 

Their frowning foreheads as we go. 

The giant-snouted crags, ho ! ho ! 

How they snort, and how they blow ! 

Through the mossy sods and stones. 
Stream and streamlet hurry down — 

A rushing throng ! A sound of song 
Beneath the vault of Heaven is blown ? 



SCENES FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE 



541 



Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones 
Of this bright day, sent down to say 

That Paradise on Earth is known, 
Resound around, beneath, above. 
All we hope and all we love 
Finds a voice in this blithe strain. 

Which wakens hill and wood and rill. 
And vibrates far o'er field and vale, 
And which Echo, like the tale 
Of old times, repeats again. 

To-whoo ! to-whoo ! near, nearer now 
The sound of song, the rushing throng ! 
Are the screech, the lapwing, and the 

All awake as if 't were day ? 

See, with long legs and belly wide, 

A salamander in the brake ! 

Every root is like a snake. 
And along the loose hillside. 
With strange contortions through the 

night. 
Curls, to seize or to affright; 
And, animated, strong, and many. 
They dart forth polypus-antennse. 
To blister with their poison spume 
The wanderer. Through the dazzling 

gloom 
The many-colored mice, that thread 
The dewy turf beneath our tread. 
In troops each other's motions cross, 
Through the heath and through the moss ; 
And, in legions intertangled. 

The fireflies flit, and swarm, and throng, 
Till all the mountain depths are spangled. 

Tell me, shall we go or stay ? 
Shall we onward ? Come along ! 
Everything around is swept 

Forward, onward, far away ! 
Trees and masses intercept 
The sight, and wisps on every side 
Are puffed up and multiplied. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Now vigorously seize my skirt, and gain 

This pinnacle of isolated crag. 

One may observe with wonder from this 

point. 
How Mammon glows among the mountains. 

FAUST 

Ay- 
And strangely through the solid depth be- 
low 



A melancholy light, like the red dawn. 

Shoots from the lowest gorge of the abyss 

Of mountains, lightning hitherward; there 
rise 

Pillars of smoke, here clouds float gently by; 

Here the light burns soft as the enkindled 
air, 

Or the illumined dust of golden flowers; 

And now it glides like tender colors spread- 
ing; 

And now bursts forth in fountains from the 
earth ; 

And now it winds, one torrent of broad 
light. 

Through the far valley, with a hundred 
veins; 

And now once more within that narrow 
corner 

Masses itself into intensest splendor. 

And near us, see, sparks spring out of the 
ground. 

Like golden sand scattered upon the dark- 
ness; 

The pinnacles of that black wall of moun- 
tains 

That hems us in are kindled. 

MEPHISTOPHELE S 

Rare, in faith ! 

Does not Sir Mammon gloriously illumi- 
nate 

His palace for this festival — it is 

A pleasure which you had not known be- 
fore. 

I spy the boisterous guests already. 

FAUST 

How 

The children of the wind rage in the air ! 
With what fierce strokes they fall upon my 
neck ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Cling tightly to the old ribs of the crag. 
Beware ! for if with them thou warrest 
In their fierce flight towards the wil- 
derness. 
Their breath will sweep thee into dust, and 
drag 
Thy body to a grave in the abyss. 
A cloud thickens the night. 
Hark ! how the tempest crashes through 
the forest ! 

The owls fly out in strange affright; 
The columns of the evergreen palaces 



542 



TRANSLATIONS 



Are split and shattered ; 

The roots creak, and stretch, and 

groan ; 
And ruinously overthrown, 
The trunks are crushed and shattered 
By the fierce blast's unconquerable stress. 
Over each other crack and crash they all 
In terrible and intertangled fall ; 
And through the ruins of the shaken moun- 
tain 
The airs hiss and howl. 
It is not the voice of the fountain, 
Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl. 
Dost thou not hear ? 

Strange accents are ringing 
Aloft, afar, anear; 

The witches are singing ! 
The torrent of a raging wizard song 
Streams the whole mountain along. 

CHORUS OF WITCHES 

The stubble is yellow, the corn is green. 

Now to the Brocken the witches go; 
The mighty multitude here may be seen 

Gathering, wizard and witch, below. 
Sir Urian is sitting aloft in the air; 

Hey over stock ! and hey over stone ! 

'Twixt witches and incubi, what shall be 
done ? 
Tell it who dare ! tell it who dare ! 

A VOICE 

Upon a sow-swine, whose farrows were 
nine. 
Old Baubo rideth alone. 

CHORUS 

Honor her, to whom honor is due, 
Old mother Baubo, honor to you ! 
An able sow, with old Baubo upon her. 
Is worthy of glovy, and worthy of honor ! 
The legion of witches is coming behind, 
Darkening the night, and outspeeding the 
wind — 

A VOICE 

Which way comest thou ! 

A VOICE. 

Over Ilsenstein; 
The owl was awake in the white moon- 
shine; 
I saw her at rest in her downy nest, 
And she stared at me with her broad, bright 
eyne. 



VOICES 

And you may now as well take your course 

on to Hell, 
Since you ride by so fast on the headlong 

blast. 

A VOICE 

She dropped poison upon me as I passed. 
Here are the wounds — 

CHORUS OF WITCHES 

Come away ! come along ! 
The way is wide, the way is long, 
But what is that for a Bedlam throng ? 
Stick with the prong, and scratch with the 

broom. 
The child in the cradle lies strangled at 

home, 
And the mother is clapping her hands. — 

SEMICHORUS I OF WIZARDS 

We glide in 
Like snails when the women are all 
away; 
And from a house once given over to sin 
Woman has a thousand steps to stray. 

SEMICHORUS II 

A thousand steps must a woman take, 
Where a man but a single spring will 
make. 

VOICES ABOVE 

Come with us, come with us, from Felsen- 
see. 

VOICES BELOW 

With what joy would we fly through the 

upper sky ! 
We are washed, we are 'nointed, stark 

naked are we; 
But our toil and our pain are forever in 

vain. 

BOTH CHORUSES 

The wind is still, the stars are fled, 
The melancholy moon is dead; 
The magic notes, like spark on spark, 
Drizzle, whistling through the dark. 
Come away ! 

VOICES BELOW 

Stay, oh, stay ! 

VOICES ABOVE 

Out of the crannies of the rocks, 
Who calls ? 



SCENES FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE 



543 



VOICES BELOW 

Oh, let me join your flocks ! 
I three hundred years have striven 
To catch your skirt and mount to Hea- 
ven, — 
And still in vain. Oh, might I be 
With company akin to me ! 

BOTH CHORUSES 

Some on a ram and some on a prong. 
On poles and on broomsticks we flutter 

along; 
Forlorn is the wight who can lise not to- 
night. 

A HALF- WITCH BELOW 

I have been tripping this many an hour: 
Are the others already so far before ? 
No quiet at home, and no peace abroad ! 
And less methinks is found by the road. 

CHOKUS OF WITCHES 

Come onward, away ! aroint thee, aroint ! 
A witch to be strong must anoint — 

anoint — 
Then every trough will be boat enough ; 
With a rag for a sail we can sweep through 

the sky, — 
Who flies not to-night, when means he to 

fly? 

BOTH CHORUSES 

We cling to the skirt, and we strike on the 

ground ; 
Witch-legions thicken around and around; 
Wizard-swarms cover the heath all over. 

[They descend. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

What thronging, dashing, raging, rustling; 
What whispering, babbling, hissing, bus- 

tling; 

What glimmering, spurting, stinking, burn- 
ings 

As Heaven and Earth were overturning. 

There is a true witch element about us ; 
Take hold on me, or we shall be divided : — 
Where are you ? 

FAUST (from a distance) 
Here ! 

MEPHISTOPHE LE S 

What! 
I must exert my authority in the house. 
Place for young Voland ! pray make way, 
good people. 



Take hold on me, doctor, and with one 

step 
Let us escape from this unpleasant crowd. 
They are too mad for people of my sort. 
Just there shines a peculiar kind of light; 
Something attracts me in those bushes. 

Come 
This way; we shall slip down there in a 

minute. 

FAUST 

Spirit of Contradiction ! Well, lead on — 
'T were a wise feat indeed to wander out 
Into the Brocken upon May-day night, 
And then to isolate one's self in scorn, 
Disgusted with the humors of the time. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

See yonder, round a many-colored flame 
A merry club is huddled altogether: 
Even with such little people as sit there 
One would not be alone. 

FAUST 

Would that I were 
Up yonder in the glow and whirling smoke, 
Where the blind million rush impetuously 
To meet the evil ones ; there might I solve 
Many a riddle that torments me ! 



MEPHISTOPHELES 



Yet 



Many a riddle there is tied anew 
Inextricably. Let the great world rage .' 
We will stay here safe in the quiet dwell- 
ings. 
'T is an old custom. Men have ever built 
Their own small world in the great world 

of all. 
I see young witches naked there, and old 

ones 
Wisely attired with greater decency. 
Be guided now by me, and you shall buy 
A pound of pleasure with a dram of 

trouble. 
I hear them tune their instruments — one 

must 
Get used to this damned scraping. Come, 

I '11 lead you 
Among them; and what there you do and 

see, 
As a fresh compact 'twixt us two shall be. 
How say you now ? this space is wide 

enough — 
Look forth, you cannot see the end of it, — * 



544 



TRANSLATIONS 



An hundred bonfires burn in rows, and they 

Who throng around them seem innumer- 
able: 

Dancing and drinking, jabbering, making 
love, 

And cooking, are at work. Now tell me, 
friend, 

What is there better in the world than this ? 

FAUST 

In introducing us, do you assume 
The character of wizard or of devil ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

In truth, I generally go about 
In strict incognito; and yet one likes 
To wear one's orders upon gala days. 
I have no ribbon at my knee; but here 
At home, the cloven foot is honorable. 
See you that snail there ? — she comes 

creeping up, 
And with her feeling eyes hath smelt out 

something. 
I could not, if I would, mask myself here. 
Come now, we '11 go about from fire to 

fire; 
I '11 be the pimp, and you shall be the lover. 

{To some Old Women, who are sitting round a 
heap of glimmering coals) 

Old gentlewomen, what do you do out 

here ? 
You ought to be with the young rioters 
Right in the thickest of the revelry — 
But every one is best content at home. 

GENERAL 

Who dare confide in right or a just claim ? 
So much as I had done for them ! and 
now — 
With women and the people 't is the same. 
Youth will stand foremost ever, — age 
may go 
To the dark grave unhonored. 

MINISTER 

Nowadays 
People assert their rights; they go too 
far; 
But as for me, the good old times I praise; 
Then we were all in all, 't was some- 
thing worth 
One's while to be in place and wear a 
star; 
That was indeed the golden age on 
earth. 



PARVENU 

We too are active, and we did and do 
What we ought not, perhaps; and yet we 

now 
Will seize, whilst all things are whirled 

round and round, 
A spoke of Fortune's wheel, and keep our 

ground. 

AUTHOR 

Who now can taste a treatise of deep sense 
And ponderous volume ? 't is impertinence 
To write what none will read, therefore 

will I 
To please the young and thoughtless people 

try. 

MEPHISTOPHELES (who at once appears to have 
grown very old) 

I find the people ripe for the last day, 
Since I last came up to the wizard moun- 
tain; 
And as my little cask runs turbid now, 
So is the world drained to the dregs. 

PEDLAR-WITCH 

Look here, 
Gentlemen; do not hurry on so fast 
And lose the chance of a good pennyworth. 
I have a pack full of the choicest wares 
Of every sort, and yet in all my bundle 
Is nothing like what may be found on earth; 
Nothing that in a moment will make rich 
Men and the world with fine malicious 

mischief. 
There is no dagger drunk with blood; no 

bowl 
From which consuming poison may be 

drained 
By innocent and healthy lips; no jewel, 
The price of an abandoned maiden's shame; 
No sword which cuts the bond it cannot 

loose, 
Or stabs the wearer's enemy in the back; 
No — 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Gossip, you know little of these times. 
What has been, has been; what is done, is 

past. 
They shape themselves into the innovations 
They breed, and innovation drags us with 

it. 
The torrent of the crowd sweeps over us: 
You think to impel, and are yourself im- 
pelled. 



SCENES FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE 



545 



FAUST 

Who is that yonder ? 



MEPHISTOPHELE S 

Mark her well. It is 



Lilith. 



FAUST 



Who? 



MEPHISTOPHELES 

Lilith, the first wife of Adam. 
Beware of her fair hair, for she excels 
All women in the magic of her locks; 
And when she winds them round a young 

man's neck. 
She will not ever set him free again. 

FAUST 

There sit a girl and an old woman — they 
Seem to be tired with pleasure and with 
play. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

There is no rest to-night for any one: 
When one dance ends another is begun; 
Come, let us to it. We shall have rare 
fun. 

(Faust dances and sings with a Girl, and 
MEPHISTOPHELES With an old Woman) 

FAUST 

I had once a lovely dream 
In which I saw an apple-tree, 

Where two fair apples with their gleam 
To climb and taste attracted me. 

THE GIRL 

She with apples you desired 
From Paradise came long ago; 

With joy I feel that, if required, 
Such still within my garden grow. 



PROCTO-PHANTASMIST 

What is this cursed multitude about ? 

Have we not long since proved to demon- 
stration 

That ghosts move not on ordinary feet ? 

But these are dancing just like men and 
women. 

THE GI»L 

What does he want then at our ball ? 



FAUST 

Oh ! he 
Is far above us all in his conceit: 
Whilst we enjoy, he reasons of enjoyment ; 
And any step which in our dance we 

tread, 
If it be left out of his reckoning. 
Is not to be considered as a step. 
There are few things that scandalize him 

not: 
And when you whirl round in the circle 

now, 
As he went round the wheel in his old 

mill, 
He says that you go wrong in all respects, 
Especially if you congratulate him 
Upon the strength of the resemblance. 

PROCTO-PHANTASMIST 

Fly! 
Vanish ! Unheard of impudence ! What, 

still there ! 
In this enlightened age, too, since you have 

been 
Proved not to exist ! — But this infernal 

brood 
Will hear no reason and endure no rule. 
Are we so wise, and is the pond still 

haunted ? 
How long have I been sweeping out this 

rubbish 
Of superstition, and the world will not 
Come clean with all my pains ! — it is a 

case 
Unheard of ! 

THE GIRL 

Then leave off teasing us so. 

PROCTO-PHANTASMIST 

I tell you, spirits, to your faces now. 
That I should not regret this despotism 
Of spirits, but that mine can wield it not. 
To-night I shall make poor work of it, 
Yet I will take a round with you, and 

hope 
Before my last step in the living dance 
To beat the poet and the devil together. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

At last he will sit down in some foul pud- 
dle; 
That in his way of solacing himself; 
Until some leech, diverted with his gravity, 
Cures him of spirits and the spirit together. 



54^ 



JUVENILIA 



\^To Faust, who has seceded from the dance. 
Why do you let that fair girl pass from 

you, 
Who sung so sweetly to you in the dance ? 

FAUST 

A red mouse in the middle of her singing 
Sprung from her mouth. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

That was all right, my friend: 
Be it enough that the mouse was not 

gray. 
Do not disturb your hour of happiness 
With close consideration of such trifles. 



Then saw I 



FAUST 



MEPHISTOPHELES 

What? 



FAUST 

Seest thou not a pale, 
Fair girl, standing alone, far, far awa}'^ ? 
She drags herself now forward with slow 

steps. 
And seems as if she moved with shackled 

feet. 
I cannot overcome the thought that she 
Is like poor Margaret. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Let it be — pass on — 
No good can come of it — it is not well 
To meet it — it is an enchanted phantom, 
A lifeless idol; with its numbing look. 
It freezes up the blood of man; and they 
Who meet its ghastly stare are turned to 

stone, 
Like those who saw Medusa. 



FAUST 

Oh, too true ! 
Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse 
Which no beloved hand has closed, alas i 
That is the breast which Margaret yielded 

to me — 
Those are the lovely limbs which I en- 
joyed ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

It is all magic, poor deluded fool ! 

She looks to every one like his first love. 



Oh, 



FAUST 

delight ! what 



woe ! I cannot 



what 
turn 

My looks from her sweet piteous counte- 
nance. 

How strangely does a single blood-red line, 

Not broader than the sharp edge of a 
knife, 

Adorn her lovely neck ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Ay, she can carry 
Her bead under her arm upon occasion; 
Perseus has cut it off for her. These plea- 
sures 
End in delusion. — Gain this rising ground, 
It is as airy here as in a . . . 
And if I am not mightily deceived, 
I see a theatre. — What may tins mean ? 

ATTENDANT 

Quite a new piece, the last of seven, for 

'tis 
The custom now to represent that number. 
'T is written by a Dilettante, and 
The actors who perform are Dilettanti; 
Excuse me, gentlemen; but I must vanish. 
I am a Dilettante curtain-lifter. 



JUVENILIA 



The Juvenilia were published in part by 
Shelley, but mainly by Medwin, Rossetti, and 
Dowden. In this division all verse earlier than 



Queen Mab is included^ except what is placed 

under DoUBTFUL, LOST, AND UNPUBLISHED 

Poems. 



VERSES ON A CAT 

Published by Ho^g-, Life of Shelley, 1858, 
and dated, 1800. Miss Helen Shelley furnished 
the verses to Mrs. Hog'g', with the following' 
note : ' I have just found the lines which I 
mentioned : a child's effusion about some cat, 



which evidently had a story, but it must have 
been before I can remember. It is in Eliza- 
beth's handwriting-, copied probably later than 
the composition of the lines, thoug-h the hand- 
writing is unformed. It seems to be a tabby 
cat, for it has an indistinct brownish-gray coat 
[there was a painting of a cat on the copy]. 



EPITAPHIUM 



547 



. . . That last expression is, I imagine, still 
classical at boys' schools, and it was a favorite 
one of Bysshe's, which I remember from a 
painful fact, that one of my sisters ventured to 
make use of it, and was punished in some old- 
fashioned way, which impressed the sentence 
on my memory.' 



A CAT in distress, 

Nothing more, nor less; 
Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye, 

As I am a sinner, 

It waits for some dinner 
To stuff out its own little belly. 

II 

You would not easily guess 
All the modes of distress 

Which torture the tenants of earth; 
And the various evils, 
Which like so many devils, 

Attend the poor souls from their birth. 

Ill 

Some a living require, 

And others desire 
An old fellow out of the way; 

And which is the best 

I leave to be guessed, 
For I cannot pretend to say. 

IV 

One wants society. 

Another variety. 
Others a tranquil life; 

Some want food, 

Others, as good, 
Only want a wife. 



But this poor little cat 

Only wanted a rat, 
To stuff out its own little maw; 

And it were as good 

Some people had such food. 
To make them hold their jaw I 



OMENS 

Published by Medwin, Shelley Papers, 1833, 
and dated 1807. He g'ives it from memory : 
' I remember well the first of his effusions, a 
very German-like fragment, beginning with 

. o I think he was then about fifteen.' In 



his Life of Shelley, 1847, he ascribes it to Shel- 
ley's love of Chatterton : ' Chatterton was then 
one of his great favorites ; he enjoyed very 
much the literary forgery and successful mys- 
tification of Horace Walpole and his contem- 
poraries ; and the Immortal Child's melancholy 
and early fate often suggested his own. One 
of his earliest effusions was a fragment begin- 
ning — it was indeed almost taken from the 
pseudo Rowley.' 

Hark ! the owlet flaps his wings 
In the pathless dell beneath ; 

Hark ! 't is the night-raven sings 
Tidings of approaching death. 

EPITAPHIUM 

latin version of the epitaph in 
gray's elegy 

Published by Medwin, Life of Shelley , 1847, 
and dated 1808-9, with this note : ' That he 
had certainly arrived at great skill in the art 
of versification, I think I shall be able to prove 
by the following specimens I kept among my 
treasures, which he gave me in 1808 or 9. The 
first is the Epitaph on Gray's Elegy in a Court' 
try Churchyard, probably a school task.' 



Hic sinu fessum caput hospitali 
Cespitis dormit juvenis ; nee illi 
Fata ridebant, popularis ille 
Nescius aurse. 

II 

Musa non vultu genus arrogant! 
Rustica natum grege despicata; 
Et suum tristis puerum notavit 
Sollicitudo. 

Ill 

Indoles illi bene larga; pectus 
Veritas sedem sibi vindicavit; 
Et pari tantis mentis beavit 
Munere coelum. 

IV 

Omne quod mcestis habuit miserto 
Corde largivit, lacrymam; recepit 
Omne quod ccelo voluit, fidelis 
Pectus amici. 



Longius sed tu fuge curiosus 
Cseteras laudes fuge suspicari; 



54» 



JUVENILIA 



Cfefceras culpas fnge velle tractas 
Sede tremeuda. 



VI 



Spe tremescentes recubant in ilia 
Sede virtutes pariterque culpse, 
In sui Patris gremio, tremenda 
Sede Deique. 



IN HOROLOGIUM 

Medwin adds, continuing the preceding 
note : ' The second specimen of his versification 
is of a totally different character, and shows a 
considerable precocity.' 

MacCarthy, Shelley^s Early Life, affords fur- 
ther lig-ht : ' Something of the precocity is ex- 
plained, however, and all of the orig-inality re- 
moved, by a reference to The Oxford Herald 
of Saturday, September 16, 1809, where the 
following English Epigranti appears : — 

On Seeing a French Watch round the 
Neck of a Beautiful Young Woman. 

" Mark what we gain from foreign lands, 
Time cannot now be said to linger, — 
Allowed to lay his two rude hands 
Where others da7'e not lay a finger." 

' It is plain that Shelley's Latin lines are sim- 
ply a translation of this epigram, which he 
most probably saw in The Oxford Herald, but 
may have read in some other paper of the time 
as I distinctly recollect having- met with it else- 
where when making my researches among the 
journals of the period.' 

Inter marmoreas LeonoraB pendula colles 
Fortunata nimis Machina dicit horas. 
Quas manibus premit ilia duas insensa pa- 

pillas 
Cur mihi sit digiio tangere, amata, nefas ? 



A DIALOGUE 

Published by Hogg, Life of Shelley, 1858, 
and composed 1809. 

DEATH 

For my dagger is bathed in the blood of 
the brave, 

I come, careworn tenant of life, from the 
grave, 

W^here Innocence sleeps 'neath the peace- 
giving sod, 

Ind the good cease to tremble at Tyranny's 
nod; 



I offer a calm habitation to thee, 

Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with 

me? 
My mansion is damp, cold silence is there, 
But it lulls in oblivion the fiends of de- 
spair; 
Not a groan of regret, not a sigh, not a 

breath, 
Dares dispute with grim Silence the em- 
pire of Death. 
I offer a calm habitation to thee. 
Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with 
me ? 

mortal 

Mine eyelids are heavy; my soul seeks re- 
pose; 

It longs in thy cells to embosom its woes: 

It longs in thy cells to deposit its load. 

Where no longer the scorpions of Perfidy 
goad. 

Where the phantoms of Prejudice vanish 
away, 

And Bigotry's bloodhounds lose scent of 
their prey. 

Yet tell me, dark Death, when thine em- 
pire is o'er, 

What awaits on Futurity's mist-covered 
shore ? 

DEATH 

Cease, cease, wayward Mortal ! I dare 

not unveil 
The shadows that float o'er Eternity's 

vale ; 
Nought waits for the good but a spirit of 

Love 
That will hail their blessed advent to re- 
gions above. 
For Love, Mortal, gleams through the 

gloom of my sway, 
And the shades which surround me fly fast 

at its ray. 
Hast thou loved ? — Then depart from 

these regions of hate. 
And in slumber with me blunt the arrows 

of fate. 
I offer a calm habitation to thee, 
Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with 

me? 

MORTAL 

Oh ! sweet is thy slumber ! oh ! sweet is 

the ray 
Which after thy night introduces the day; 



TO DEATH 



549 



How concealed, how persuasive, self-in- 
terest's breath. 

Though it floats to mine ear from the bosom 
of Death ! 

I hoped that I quite was forgotten by all, 

Yet a lingering friend might be grieved at 
my fall, 

And duty fcrbids, though I languish to die. 

When departure might heave Virtue's 
breast with a sigh. 

Oh, Death ! oh, my friend ! snatch this 
form to thy shrine. 

And I fear, dear destroyer, I shall not re- 
pine. 



TO THE MOONBEAM 

Composed September 23, 1809, and pub- 
lished by Hogg, Life of Shelley, 1858. He 
gives a letter from Shelley : ' There is rhap- 
sody ! Now, I think, after this you ought to 
send me some poetry.' 



Moonbeam, leave the shadowy vale, 

To bathe this burning brow. 
Moonbeam, why art thou so pale, 
As thou walkest o'er the dewy dale. 
Where humble wild flowers grow ? 
Is it to mimic me ? 
But that can never be; 
- For thine orb is bright, 
And the clouds are light, 
That at intervals shadow the star-studded 
night. 

II 

Now all is deathy still on earth; 
Nature's tired frame reposes; 
And, ere the golden morning's birth 
Its radiant hues discloses, 

Flies forth its balmy breath. 
But mine is the midnight of Death, 
And Nature's morn 
To my bosom forlorn 
Brings but a gloomier night, implants a 
deadlier thorn. 

Ill 

Wretch ! Suppress the glare of mad- 
ness 

Struggling in thine haggard eye, 
For the keenest throb of sadness, 

Pale Despair's most sickening sigh, 



Is but to mimic me; 
And this must ever be. 
When the twilight of care. 
And the night of despair. 
Seem in my breast but joys to the pangs 
that rankle there. 



THE SOLITARY 
Published by Rossetti, 1870, and dated 1810. 



Dar'st thou amid the varied multitude 
To live alone, an isolated thing ? 
To see the busy beings round thee spring, 
And care for none; in thy calm solitude, 
A flower that scarce breathes in the desert 
rude 

To Zephyr's passing wing ? 

II 

Not the swart Pariah in some Indian grove. 
Lone, lean, and hunted by his brother's 

hate, 
Hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter 
fate 
As that poor wretch who cannot, cannot 

love. 
He bears a load which nothing can re- 
move, 

A killing, withering weight. 

Ill 

He smiles — 't is sorrow's deadliest mock- 
ery; 
He speaks — the cold words flow not 

from his soul; 
He acts like others, drains the genial 
bowl, — 
Yet, yet he longs — although he fears — to 

die; 
He pants to reach what yet he seems to 

fly, 

Dull life's extremest goal. 

TO DEATH 

Composed at Oxford, 1810, and published by 
Hogg, Life of Shelley, 1858. 

Death ! where is thy victory ? 
To triumph whilst I die. 
To triumph whilst thine ebon wing 
Enfolds my shuddering soul ? 



550 



JUVENILIA 



O Death ! where is thy sting ? 

Not when the tides of murder roll, 
When nations groan that kings may bask 
in bliss, 
Death ! canst thou boast a victory such 
as this — 
When in his hour of pomp and power 
His blow the mightiest murderer 
gave, 
Mid Nature's cries the sacrifice 
Of millions to glut the grave — 
When sunk the tyrant desolation's 

slave. 
Or Freedom's life-blood streamed upon 
thy shrine, — 
Stern Tyrant, couldst thou boast a victory 
such as mine ? 

To know in dissolution's void 

That mortals' baubles sunk decay; 
That everything, but Love, destroyed 
Must perish with its kindred clay, — 
Perish Ambition's crown. 
Perish her sceptred sway; 
From Death's pale front fades Pride's 
fastidious frown; 
In Death's damp vault the lurid fires de- 
cay. 
That Envy lights at heaven-born Virtue's 
beam ; 

That all the cares subside, 
Which lurk beneath the tide 
Of life's unquiet stream; — 
Yes ! this is victory ! 
And on yon rock, whose dark form glooms 
the sky. 
To stretch these pale limbs, when the 
soul is fled; 
To baffle the lean passions of their prey; 

To sleep within the palace of the dead ! 
Oh ! not the King, around whose dazzling 

throne 
His countless courtiers mock the words 

they say, 
Triumphs amid the bud of glory blown. 
As I in this cold bed, and faint expiring 



groan 



Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks 
the woe 
Which props the column of unnatural 
state ! 
You the plainings faint and low, 
From misery's tortured soul that flow, 
Shall usher to your fate. 



Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell com- 
mand 
The war-fiend riots o'er a peaceful land ! 
You desolation's gory throng 
Shall bear from victory along 
To that mysterious strand. 



LOVE'S ROSE 

Sent by Shelley to Hogg, in a letter : ' I 
transcribe for you a strange medley of mad- 
dened stuff, which I wrote by the midnight 
moon last night. [Here follow To a Star and 
Love''s JRose.] Ohe ! jam satis dementicE ! I 
hear you exclaim.' Composed in 1810 or 1811, 
and published by Hogg, Life of Shelley, 1858. 



Hopes, that swell in youthful breasts, 

Live not through the waste of time ? 
Love's rose a host of thorns invests; 

Cold, ungenial is the clime. 

Where its honors blow. 
Youth says, ' The purple flowers are mine," 

Which die the while they glow. 

II 

Dear the boon to Fancy given. 

Retracted whilst it 's granted : 
Sweet the rose which lives in heaven, 

Although on earth 't is planted. 

Where its honors blow. 
While by earth's slaves the leaves are 
riven 

Which die the while they glow. 

Ill 

Age cannot Love destroy. 

But perfidy can blast the flower, 
Even when in most unwary hour 
It blooms in Fancy's bower. 

Age cannot Love destroy. 

But perfidy can rend the shrine 

In which its vermeil splendors shine. 

EYES 
Published by Rossetti, 1870, and dated 1810. 

How eloquent are eyes ! 
Not the_rapt poet's frenzied lay 
When the soul's wildest feelings stray 

Can speak so well as they. 

How eloquent are eyes ! 



POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE 



551 



Not music's most impassioned note 
On which love's warmest fervors float 
Like them bids rapture rise. 

Love, look thus again, — 
That your look may light a waste of years, 
Darting the beam that conquers cares 

Through the cold shower of tears. 

Love, look thus again ! 



POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE, OR 
THE ROSICRUCIAN 

Shelley's romance, St. Irvyne, or the Rosi- 
crucian, was in MS. by April 1, 1810, and pub- 
lished about December 18, of that year. Med- 
win writes : ' This work contains several poems, 
some of which were written a year or two be- 
fore the date of the Romance. . . . Three of 
them are in the metre of Walter Scott's Hel- 
vellyn, a poem he greatly admired.' Rossetti 
ascribes I, III, V, and VI to the year 1808, 
and II and IV to 1809. 



I 



VICTORIA 



'T WAS dead of the night, when I sat in my 

dwelling; 
One glimmering lamp was expiring and 

low; 
Around, the dark tide of the tempest was 

swelling, 
Along the wild mountains night-ravens 

were yelling, — 
They bodingly presaged destruction and 

woe. 

II 

'T was then that I started ! — the wild 
storm was howling. 
Nought was seen save the lightning 
which danced in the sky; 
Above me the crash of the thunder was 
rolling. 
And low, chilling murmurs the blast 
wafted by, 

III 

My heart sank within me — unheeded the 
war 
Of the battling clouds on the mountain- 
tops broke; 



Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine 



ear — 
This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to 
fear; 
But conscience in low, noiseless whisper- 
ing spoke. 

IV 

'T was then that, her form on the whirlwind 
upholding. 
The ghost of the murdered Victoria 
strode; 
In her right hand a shadowy shroud she 
was holding; 
She swiftly advanced to my lonesome 
abode. 



I wildly then called on the tempest to bear 
me — 



II 



ON THE DARK HEIGHT OF JURA' 



Ghosts of the dead ! have I not heard 
your yelling 
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the 
blast. 
When o'er the dark ether the tempest is 
swelling. 
And on eddying whirlwind the thunder- 
peal passed ? 

II 

For oft have I stood on the dark height of 
Jura, 
Which frowns on the valley that opens 
beneath ; 
Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest's 
fury. 
Whilst around me, I thought, echoed 
murmurs of death. 

Ill 

And now, whilst the winds of the mountain 
are howling, 
O father ! thy voice seems to strike on 
mine ear; 
In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is 
rolling. 
It breaks on the pause of the elements' 
jar. 



552 



JUVENILIA 



IV 

On the wing of the whirlwind which roars 
o'er the mountain 
Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who 
is dead, — 
On the mist of the tempest which hangs 
o'er the fountain, 
Whilst a wreath of dark vapor encircles 
his head. 



Ill 



SISTER ROSA: A BALLAD 



The death-bell beats ! — 

The mountain repeats 
The echoing sound of the knell; 

And the dark monk now 

Wraps the cowl round his brow, 
As he sits in his lonely cell. 

II 

And the cold hand of death 

Chills his shuddering breath, 
As he lists to the fearful lay, 

Which the ghosts of the sky, 

As they sweep wildly by, 
Sing to departed day. 

And they sing of the hoar 

When the stern fates had power 
To resolve Rosa's form to its clay. 

Ill 

But that hour is past; 

And that hour was the last 
Of peace to the dark monk's brain; 

Bitter tears from his eyes gushed silent 
and fast; 
And he strove to suppress them in vain. 

IV 

Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on 
the floor, 
When the death-knell struck on his ear, — 

* Delight is in store 

For her evermore; 
But for me is fate, horror, and fear.* 



Then his eyes wildly rolled. 
When the death-bell tolled, 
And he raged in terrific woe; 



And he stamped on the ground, — 
But, when ceased the sound, 
Tears again began to flow. 

VI 

And the ice of despair 
Chilled the wild throb of care. 

And he sate in mute agony still; 

Till the night-stars shone through the 
cloudless air, 

And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill. 



VII 

Then he knelt in his cell, — 

And the horrors of hell 
Were delights to his agonized pain; 

And he prayed to God to disscjve 
spell. 
Which else must forever remain. 



the 



VIII 



And 



in fervent prayer he knelt on the 
ground. 
Till the abbey bell struck one; 
His feverish blood ran chill at the sound ; 
A voice hollow and horrible murmured 
around, — 
* The term of thy penance is done ! * 

IX 

Grew dark the night; 

The moonbeam bright 
Waxed faint on the mountain high; 

And from the black hill 

Went a voice cold and still, — 
' Monk ! thou art free to die.' 

X 

Then he rose on his feet, 
And his heart loud did beat, 
And his limbs they were palsied with 
dread ; 
Whilst the grave's clammy dew 
O'er his pale forehead grew; 
And he shuddered to sleep with the 
dead. 

XI 

And the wild midnight storm 

Baved around his tall form. 
As he sought the chapel's gloom: 

And the sunk grass did sigh 

To the wind, bleak and high. 
As he searched for the new-made tomb. 



POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE 



553 



XII 

And forms, dark and high, 

Seemed around him to fly, 
And mingle their yells with the blast, — 

And on the dark wall 

Half-seen shadows did fall, 
As, enhorrored, he onward passed. 

XIII 

And the storm-fiends wild rave 

O'er the new-made grave. 
And dread shadows linger around ; — 

The Monk called on God his soul to save. 
And, in horror, sank on the ground. 

XIV 

Then despair nerved his arm 

To dispel the charm, 
And he burst Rosa's coffin asunder; 

And the fierce storm did swell 

More terrific and fell 
And louder pealed the thunder. 

XV 

And laughed in joy the fiendish throng, 
Mixed with ghosts of the mouldering 
dead; 
And their grisly wings, as they floated 
along. 
Whistled in murmurs dread. 

XVI 

And her skeleton form the dead Nun reared, 

Which dripped with the chill dew of hell; 

In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames 

appeared. 
And triumphant their gleam on the dark 
monk glared. 
As he stood within the cell. 

XVII 

And her lank hand lay on his shuddering 
brain. 

But each power was nerved by fear, — 
* I never, henceforth, may breathe again; 
Death now ends mine anguished pain. 

The grave yawns, — we meet there.' 

xvin 

And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound. 

So deadly, so lone and so fell 
That in long vibrations shuddered the 

ground ; 
And, as the stem notes floated around, 

A deep groan was answered from hell. 



IV 

ST. IRVYNE'S TOWER 



How swiftly through heaven's wide ex- 
panse 

Bright day's resplendent colors fade ! 
How sweetly does the moonbeam's glance 

With silver tint St. Irvyne's glade ! 

II 

No cloud along the spangled air. 
Is borne upon the evening breeze; 

How solemn is the scene ! how fair 
The moonbeams rest upon the trees ! 

Ill 

Yon dark gray turret glimmers white, 
Upon it sits the mournful owl; 

Along the stillness of the night 
Her melancholy shriekings roll. 

IV 

But not alone on Irvyne's tower 

The silver moonbeam pours her rays; 

It gleams upon the ivied bower. 
It dances in the cascade's spray. 



* Ah ! why do darkening shades conceal 
The hour when man must cease to be ? 

Why may not human minds unveil 
The dim mists of futurity ? 

VI 

' The keenness of the world hath torn 
The heart which opens to its blast; 

Despised, neglected, and forlorn, 
Sinks the wretch in death at last.' 



V 

BEREAVEMENT 



How stern are the woes of the desolate 
mourner. 
As he bends in still grief o'er the hal- 
lowed bier, 
As enanguished he turns from the laugh of 
the scorner. 
And drops to perfection's remembrance a 
tear; 



554 



JUVENILIA 



When floods of despair down his pale cheek 

are streaming, 
When no blissful hope on his bosom is 

beaming, 
Or, if lulled for a while, soon he starts 

from his dreaming, 
And finds torn the soft ties to affection 

so dear. 

II 

Ah ! when shall day dawn on the night of 

the grave, 
Or summer succeed to the winter of 

death ? 
Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven 

will save 
The spirit that faded away with the 

breath. 
Eternity points in its amaranth bower. 
Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet pros- 
pect lower, 
Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the 

dower, 
When woe fades away like the mist of 

the heath. 



VI 



THE DROWNED LOVER 



Ah ! faint are her limbs, and her footstep 

is weary, 
Yet far must the desolate wanderer 

roam; 
Though the tempest is stern, and the moun- 
tain is dreary. 
She must quit at deep midnight her 

pitiless home. 
I see her swift foot dash the dew from the 

whortle. 
As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of 

myrtle ; 
And I hear, as she wraps round her figure 

the kirtle, 
* Stay thy boat on the lake, — dearest 

Henry, I come.' 

II 

High swelled in her bosom the throb of 
affection. 
As lightly her form bounded over the 
lea, 



And arose in her mind every dear recollec- 
tion; 
* I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for 
thee.' 

How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is 
soothing. 

When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is 
moving. 

And the mind the mild joys of affection is 
proving. 
Is the stern voice of fate that bids hap- 
piness flee ! 

Ill 

Oh ! dark lowered the clouds on that horri- 
ble eve. 
And the moon dimly gleamed through 
the tempested air; 

Oh ! how could fond visions such softness 
deceive ? 
Oh ! how could false hope rend a bosom 
so fair ? 

Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are 
laving, 

O'er his form the fierce swell of the tem- 
pest is raving; 

But fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness 
is saving, 
In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee there. 



POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS 

OF 

MARGARET NICHOLSON; 

BEING POEMS FOUND AMONGST THE PAPERS 

OF THAT NOTED FEMALE WHO ATTEMPTED 

THE LIFE OF THE KING IN 1786. 

Edited by JOHN FITZVICTOR 

The Posthumous Fragments of Margaret 
Nicholson was published in November, 1810, 
at Oxford, probably as a pamphlet. Hog-g 
narrates the origin and history of this volume 
at length. The material points of his account 
are that he found Shelley reading the proofs 
of some poems which were meant to be pub- 
lished, and advised him to burlesque them and 
issue them as a joke ; that this plan was 
adopted, and the poems, revised by the two 
friends and ascribed on Hogg's suggestion to 
Peg- Nicholson, a mad woman, then still living, 
who had attempted the life of Georg-e III., 
were printed at the publishers' expense and 
eagerly taken up by the Oxford collegians. Ho 



POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS 



555 



adds that the first poem was not Shelley's, but 
was the production of a ' rhymester of the day ' 
and had been confided to him. This account is 
discredited by Dowden and others ; the inten- 
tionally burlesque portion is thought to be con- 
fined to the Epithalamiuni in the lines referred 
to by Shelley below ; ' the rhymester ' is pre- 
sumed to be Hog-g, and his work not the first 
poem, but the aforesaid passage of the Epitha- 
lamium. 

Shelley throws a dubious light on the matter 
in a letter to Graham, November 30, 1810 : 
' The part of the Epithalamiuni which you 
mention (i. e. from the end of Satan's triumph) 
is the production of a friend's mistress; it had 
been concluded there, but she thought it abrupt 
and added this ; it is omitted in numbers of the 
copies — that which I sent to my Mother of 
course did not contain it. I shall possibly send 
you the abuse to-day, but I am afraid that 
they will not insert it. But you mistake ; the 
Epithalamium will make it sell like wildfire, 
and as the Nephew is kept a profound secret, 
there can arise no danger froni the indelicacy 
of the Aunt. It sells wonderfully here, and is 
become the fashionable subject of discussion. 
... Of course to my Father Peg is a profound 
secret.' 

The composition of the verses is described 
by an eye-witness, whose account is given in 
Montgomery's Oxford, quoted by Dowden: 
' The ease with which Shelley composed many 
of the stanzas therein contained is truly aston- 
ishing. When surprised with a proof from the 
printers on the moi'ning he would frequently 
start off his sofa exclaiming that that had been 
his only bed ; and on being informed that the 
men were waiting for more copy, he would sit 
down and write off a few stanzas, and send 
them to the press without even revising or 
reading them.' 



ADVERTISEMENT 

The energy and native genius of these Frag- 
ments must be the only apology which the 
Editor can make for thus intruding them on 
the Public Notice. The first I found with no 
title, and have left it so. It is intimately con- 
nected with the dearest interests of universal 
happiness ; and much as we may deplore the 
fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the 
ideas of this poor female had acquired, we 
cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal 
regret to the departed memory of genius, 
which, had it been rightly organized, would 
have made that intellect, which has since be- 
coane the victim of frenzy and despair, a most 
brilliant ornament to society. 

In case the sale of these Fragments evinces 



that the Public have any curiosity to be pre- 
sented with a more copious collection of my 
unfortunate Aunt's Poems, I have other papers 
in my possession, which shall, in that case, be 
subjected to their notice. It may be supposed 
they require much arrangement ; but I send 
the following to the press in the same state in 
which they came into my possession. 

J F. 

WAR 

Ambition, power, and avarice, now have 

hurled 
Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world. 
See ! on yon heath what countless victims 

lie! 
Hark ! what loud shrieks ascend through 

yonder sky ! 
Tell then the cause, 'tis sure the avenger's 

rage 
Has swept these myriads from life's 

crowded stage. 
Hark to that groan — an anguished hero 

dies. 
He shudders in death's latest agonies; 
Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek, 
Yet does his parting breath essay to 

speak: — 

' O God ! my wife, my children ! Mon- 
arch, thou 
For whose support this fainting frame lies 

low, 
For whose support in distant lands I bleed, 
Let his friends' welfare be the warrior's 

meed. 
He hears me not — ah ! no — kings cannot 

hear. 
For passion's voice has dulled their listless 

ear. 
To thee, then, mighty God, I lift my 

moan; 
Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant's anguished 

groan. 
Oh ! now I die — but still is death's fierce 

pain — 
God hears my prayer — we meet, we meet 

again.' 
He spake, reclined him on death's bloody 

bed, 
And with a parting groan his spirit fled. 

Oppressors of mankind, to you we owe 
The baleful streams from whence these 
miseries flow; 



556 



JUVENILIA 



For you how many a mother weeps her 

son, 
Snatched from life's course ere half his 

race was run ! 
For you how many a widow drops a tear, 
In silent anguish, on her husband's bier ! 

* Is it then thine, Almighty Power,' she 

cries, 
* Whence tears of endless sorrow dim these 

eyes? 
Is this the system which thy powerful sway, 
Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping lay. 
Formed and approved ? — it cannot be — 

but oh ! 
Forgive me Heaven, my brain is warped by 

woe.' 

*Tis not — he never bade the war-note 

swell. 
He never triumphed in the work of hell. 
Monarchs of earth ! thine is the baleful 

deed. 
Thine are the crimes for which thy subjects 

bleed. 
Ah ! when will come the sacred fated time. 
When man unsullied by his leaders' crime, 
Despising wealth, ambition, pomp, and 

pride. 
Will stretch him fearless by his foemen's 

side ? 
Ah ! when will come the time, when o'er 

the plain 
No more shall death and desolation reign ? 
When will the sun smile on the bloodless 

field. 
And the stern warrior's arm the sickle 

wield ? 
Not whilst some King, in cold ambition's 

dreams. 
Flans for the field of death his plodding 

schemes; 
Not whilst for private pique the public fall, 
And one frail mortal's mandate governs 

all,— 
Swelled with command and mad with diz- 
zying sway; 
Who sees unmoved his myriads fade away, 
Careless who lives or dies — so that he 

gains 
Some trivial point for which he took the 

pains. 
What then are Kings ? — I see the trem- 
bling crowd, 
I hear their fulsome clamors echoed loud: 



Their stern oppressor pleased appears 

awhile. 
But April's sunshine is a Monarch's smile. 
Kings are but dust — the last eventful 

day 
Will level all and make them lose their 

sway; 
Will dash the sceptre from the Monarch's 

hand. 
And from the warrior's grasp wrest the 

ensanguined brand. 

O Peace, soft Peace, art thou forever 
gone ? 

Is thy fair form indeed forever flown ? 

And love and concord hast thou swept 
away, 

As if incongruous with thy parted sway ? 

Alas I fear thou hast, for none appear. 

Now o'er the palsied earth stalks giant 
Fear, 

With War and Woe and Terror in his 
train ; 

List'ning he pauses on the embattled plain. 

Then, speeding swiftly o'er the ensanguined 
heath, 

Has left the frightful work to hell and 
death. 

See ! gory Ruin yokes his blood-stained 
car; 

He scents the battle's carnage from afar; 

Hell and destruction mark his mad ca- 
reer; 

He tracks the rapid step of hurrying Fear; 

Whilst ruined towns and smoking cities 
tell, 

That thy work, Monarch, is the work of 
hell. 

* It is thy work ! ' I hear a voice repeat, 

' Shakes the broad basis of thy blood- 
stained seat; 

And at the orphan's sigh, the widow's 
moan. 

Totters the fabric of thy guilt-stained 
throne — 

It is thy work, O Monarch.' Now the 
sound 

Fainter and fainter yet is borne around; 

Yet to enthusiast ears the murmurs tell 

That heaven, indignant at the work of 
hell. 

Will soon the cause, the hated cause re- 
move, 

Which tears from earth peace, innocence 
and love. 



POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS 



557 



FRAGMENT 

SUPPOSED TO BE AN EPITHALAMIUM OF 
FRANCIS RAVAILLAC AND CHARLOTTE 
CORDAY 

'T IS midnight now — athwart the murky 
air 
Dank lurid meteors shoot a livid gleam; 
From the dark storm-clouds flashes a fear- 
ful glare, 
It shows the bending oak, the roaring 
stream. 
I pondered on the woes of lost mankind, 
I pondered on the ceaseless rage of 
kings; 
My rapt soul dwelt upon the ties that bind 
The mazy volume of commingling things. 
When fell and wild misrule to man stern 
sorrow brings. 

I heard a yell — it was not the knell, 
When the blasts on the wild lake sleep, 

That floats on the pause of the summer 
gale's swell 
O'er the breast of the waveless deep. 

I thought it had been death's accents cold 
That bade me recline on the shore; 

I laid mine hot head on the surge-beaten 
mould. 
And thought to breathe no more. 

But a heavenly sleep 
That did suddenly steep 

In balm my bosom's pain. 
Pervaded my soul, 
And free from control 

Did mine intellect range again. 

Methought enthroned upon a silvery cloud, 
Which floated mid a strange and bril- 
liant light. 
My form upborne by viewless ether rode, 
And spurned the lessening realms of 
earthly night. 
What heavenly notes burst on my ravished 
ears. 
What beauteous spirits met my dazzled 
eye! 
Hark ! louder swells the music of the 
spheres. 
More clear the forms of speechless bliss 
float by, 
And heavenly gestures suit ethereal melody. 



But fairer than the spirits of the air, 

More graceful than the Sylph of symme- 
try. 
Than the enthusiast's fancied love more 
fair. 
Were the bright forms that swept the 
azure sky. 
Enthroned in roseate light, a heavenly 
band 
Strewed flowers of bliss that never fade 
away; 
They welcome virtue to its native land, 
And songs of triumph greet the joyous 
day 
When endless bliss the woes of fleeting life 
repay. 

Congenial minds will seek their kindred 
soul. 
E'en though the tide of time has rolled 
between; 
They mock weak matter's impotent control. 
And seek of endless life the eternal 
scene. 
At death's vain summons this will never 
die. 
In Nature's chaos this will not decay. 
These are the bands which closely, warmly, 
tie 
Thy soul, O Charlotte, 'yond this chain 
of clay, 
To him who thine must be till time shall 
fade away. 

Yes, Francis ! thine was the dear knife 
that tore 
A tyrant's heartstrings from his guilty 
breast; 
Thine was the daring at a tyrant's gore 
To smile in triumph, to contemn the 
rest; 
And thine, loved glory of thy sex ! to 
tear 
From its base shrine a despot's haughty 
soul. 
To laugh at sorrow in secure despair. 
To mock, with smiles, life's lingering 
control. 
And triumph mid the griefs that round thy 
fate did roll. 

Yes ! the fierce spirits of the avenging 
deep 
With endless tortures goad their guilty 
shades. 



558 



JUVENILIA 



I see the lank and ghastly spectres sweep 
Along the burning length of yon arcades; 

And I see Satan stalk athwart the plain — 
He hastes along the burning soil of hell; 

* Welcome, thou despots, to my dark do- 



main 



With maddening joy mine anguished senses 

swell 
To welcome to their home the friends I 

love so well.' 



Hark ! to those notes, how sweet, how thrill- 
ing sweet 
They echo to the sound of angels' feet. 

Oh, haste to the bower where roses are 

spread, 
For there is prepared thy nuptial bed. 
Oh, haste — hark ! hark ! — they 're gone. 



CHORUS OF SPIRITS 

Stay, ye days of contentment and joy. 
Whilst love every care is erasing; 

Stay, ye pleasures that never can cloy, 
And ye spirits that can never cease 
pleasing ! 

And if any soft passion be near, 

Which mortals, frail mortals, can 
know. 

Let love shed on the bosom a tear. 

And dissolve the chill ice-drop of woe. 

SYMPHONY 

FRANCIS 

Soft, my dearest angel stay. 
Oh ! you suck my soul away; 
Suck on, suck on, I glow, I glow ! 
Tides of maddening passion roll. 
And streams of rapture drown my 

soul. 
Now give me one more billing kiss. 
Let your lips now repeat the bliss, 
Endless kisses steal my breath. 
No life can equal such a death. 

CHARLOTTE 

Oh ! yes, I will kiss thine eyes so fair. 

And I will clasp thy form; 
Serene is the breath of the balmy air. 

But I think, love, thou feelest me 
warm. 



And I will recline on thy marble neck 

Till I mingle into thee; 
And I will kiss the rose on thy cheek. 

And thou shalt give kisses to me; 
For here is no morn to flout our delight. 

Oh ! dost thou not joy at this ? 
And here we may lie an endless night, 

A long, long night of bliss. 



Spirits ! when raptures move 

Say what it is to love, 

When passion's tear stands on the cheek. 

When bursts the unconscious sigh; 
And the tremulous lips dare not speak 

What is told by the soul-felt eye. 
But what is sweeter to revenge's ear 

Than the fell tyrant's last expiring yell ? 
Yes ! than love's sweetest blisses 't is more 
dear 

To drink the floatings of a despot's 
knell. 
I wake — 't is done — 't is o'er. 



DESPAIR 

And canst thou mock mine agony, thus 
calm 
In cloudless radiance, Queen of silver 
night ? 
Canyon, ye flowerets, spread your perfumed 
balm 
Mid pearly gems of dew that shine so 
bright ? 
And you wild winds, thus can you sleep so 
still 
Whilst throbs the tempest of my breast 
so high ? 
Can the fierce night-fiends rest on yonder 
hill. 
And, in the eternal mansions of the sky. 
Can the directors of the storm in powerless 
silence lie ? 

Hark ! I hear music on the zephyr's 
wing — 
Louder it floats along the tmruffled sky; 
Some fairy sure has touched the viewless 
string — 
Now faint in distant air the murmurs 
die. 
Awhile it stills the tide of agony; 

Now — now it loftier swells — again 
stern woe 



POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS 



559 



Arises with the awakening melody; 

Again fierce torments, such as demons 

know, 
In bitterer, feller tide, on this torn bosom 

flow. 

Arise, ye sightless spirits of the storm, 

Ye unseen minstrels of the aerial song, 
Pour the fierce tide around this lonely 
form, 
And roll the tempest's wildest swell 
along. 
Dart the red lightning, wing the forked 
flash. 
Pour from thy cloud-formed hills the 
thunder's roar; 
Arouse the whirlwind — and let ocean dash 
In fiercest tumult on the rocking 
shore, — 
Destroy this life or let earth's fabric be no 
more ! 

Yes ! every tie that links me here is dead; 

Mysterious fate, thy mandate I obey ! 
Since hope and peace, and joy, for aye are 
fled, 
I come, terrific power, I come away. 
Then o'er this ruined soul let spirits of hell. 
In triumph, laughing wildly, mock its 
pain; 
And, though with direst pangs mine heart- 
strings swell, 
I '11 echo back their deadly yells again, 
Cursing the power that ne'er made aught 
in vain. 



FRAGMENT 

Yes ! all is past — swift time has fled 
away. 
Yet its swell pauses on my sickening 
mind. 
How long will horror nerve this frame of 
clay? 
I 'm dead, and lingers yet my soul be- 
hind. 
Oh ! powerful fate, revoke thy deadly 
spell, 
And yet that may not ever, ever be, 
Heaven will not smile upon the work of 
hell; 
Ah ! no, for heaven cannot smile on me; 
Fate, envious fate, has sealed my wayward 
destiny. 



I sought the cold brink of the midnight 
surge ; 
I sighed beneath its wave to hide my 
woes; 
The rising tempest sung a funeral dirge. 
And on the blast a frightful yell arose. 
Wild flew the meteors o'er the maddened 
main. 
Wilder did grief athwart my bosom 
glare ; 
Stilled was the unearthly howling, and a 
strain 
Swelled 'mid the tumult of the battling 
air, 
'T was like a spirit's song, but yet more 
soft and fair. 

I met a maniac — like he was to me; 

I said — ' Poor victim, wherefore dost 
thou roam ? 
And canst thou not contend with agony. 
That thus at midnight thou dost quit 
thine home ? ' 
'Ah, there she sleeps: cold is her bloodless 
form, 
And I will go to slumber in her grave; 
And then our ghosts, whilst raves the mad- 
dened storm, 
Will sweep at midnight o'er the wildered 
wave; 
Wilt thou our lowly beds with tears of pity 
lave ? ' 

* Ah ! no, I cannot shed the pitying tear. 
This breast is cold, this heart can feel no 
more ; 
But I can rest me on thy chilling bier, 
Can shriek in horror to the tempest's 
roar.' 



THE SPECTRAL HORSEMAN 

What was the shriek that struck fancy's 

ear 
As it sate on the ruins of time that is past ? 
Hark ! it floats on the fitful blast of the 

wind. 
And breathes to the pale moon a funeral 

sigh. 
It is the Benshie's moan on the storm, 
Or a shivering fiend that, thirsting for 

sin. 
Seeks murder and guilt when virtue sleeps, 



56o 



JUVENILIA 



Winged with the power of some ruthless 

king, 
And sweeps o'er the breast of the prostrate 

plain. 
It was not a fiend from the regions of hell 
That poured its low moan on the stillness 

of night; 
It was not a ghost of the guilty dead, 
Nor a yelling vampire reeking with gore; 
But aye at the close of seven years' end 
That voice is mixed with the swell of the 

storm, 
And aye at the close of seven years' end, 
A shapeless shadow that sleeps on the hill 
Awakens and floats on the mist of the 

heath. 
It is not the shade of a murdered man, 
Who has rushed uncalled to the throne of 

his God, 
And howls in the pause of the eddying 

storm. 
This voice is low, cold, hollow, and chill; 
'T is not heard by the ear, but is felt in the 

soul. 
*T is more frightful far than the death- 
demon's scream, 
Or the laughter of fiends when they howl 

o'er the corpse 
Of a man who has sold his soul to hell. 
It tells the approach of a mystic form, 
A white courser bears the shadowy sprite; 
More thin they are than the mists of the 

mountain, 
When the clear moonlight sleeps on the 

waveless lake. 
More pale his cheek than the snows of 

Nithona 
When winter rides on the northern blast, 
And howls in the midst of the leafless 

wood. 
Yet when the fierce swell of the tempest is 

raving, 
And the whirlwinds howl in the caves of 

Inisfallen, 
Still secure 'mid the wildest war of the 

sky, 
The phantom courser scours the waste, 
And his rider howls in the thunder's roar. 
O'er him the fierce bolts of avenging 

heaven 
Pause, as in fear, to strike his head. 
The meteors of midnight recoil from his 

figure ; 
Yet the wildered peasant, that oft passes 

by, 



With wonder beholds the blue flash through 

his form; 
And his voice, though faint as the sighs of 

the dead. 
The startled passenger shudders to hear. 
More distinct than the thunder's wildest 

roar. 
Then does the dragon, who, chained in the 

caverns 
To eternity, curses the champion of Erin, 
Moan and yell loud at the lone hour of 

midnight, 
And twine his vast wreaths round the forms 

of the demons; 
Then in agony roll his death-swimming 

eyeballs. 
Though wildered by death, yet never to 

die! 
Then he shakes from his skeleton folds the 

nightmares, 
Who, shrieking in agony, seek the couch 
Of some fevered wretch who courts sleep 

in vain; 
Then the tombless ghosts of the guilty 

dead 
In horror pause on the fitful gale. 
They float on the swell of the eddying 

tempest, 
And scared seek the caves of gigantic . . . 
Where their thin forms pour unearthly 

sounds 
On the blast that sweeps the breast of the 

lake. 
And mingles its swell with the moonlight 

air. 



MELODY TO A SCENE OF 
FORMER TIMES 

Art thou indeed forever gone, 

Forever, ever, lost to me ? 
Must this poor bosom beat alone, 

Or beat at all, if not for thee ? 
Ah, why was love to mortals given, 
To lift them to the height of heaven. 
Or dash them to the depths of hell ? 

Yet I do not reproach thee, dear ! 
Ah ! no, the agonies that swell 

This panting breast, this frenzied brain, 

Might wake my 's slumbering tear. 

Oh ! heaven is witness I did love, 
And heaven does know I love thee still, — 
Does know the fruitless sickening thrill, 

When reason's judgment vainly strove 



BIGOTRY'S VICTIM 



S6i 



To blot thee from my memory; 
But which might never, never be. 
Oh ! I appeal to that blest day 
When passion's wildest ecstasy 
Was coldness to the joys I knew, 
When every sorrow sunk away. 
Oh ! I had never lived before, 
But now those blisses are no more. 

And now I cease to live again, 
I do not blame thee, love; ah no ! 
The breast that feels this anguished woe 
Throbs for thy happiness alone. 
Two years of speechless bliss are gone, — 
I thank thee, dearest, for the dream. 
'T is night — what faint and distant scream 
Comes on the wild and fitful blast ? 
It moans for pleasures that are past, 
It moans for days that are gone by. 
Oh ! lagging hours, how slow you fly I 

I see a dark and lengthened vale. 
The black view closes with the tomb; 
But darker is the lowering gloom 

That shades the intervening dale. 
In visioned slumber for awhile 
I seem again to share thy smile, 
I seem to hang upon thy tone. 

Again you say, ' confide in me, 
For I am thine, and thine alone. 

And thine must ever, ever be.' 
But oh ! awakening still anew. 
Athwart my enanguished senses flew 

A fiercer, deadlier agony ! 

STANZA 

FROM A TRANSLATION OF THE MAR- 
SEILLAISE HYMN 

Sent by Shelley in a letter to Graham. 
Published by Forman, 1876, and dated 1810. 

Tremble Kings despised of man ! 

Ye traitors to your Country 
Tremble ! Your parricidal plan 

At length shall meet its destiny . . . 
We all are soldiers fit to fight 
But if we sink in glory's night 
Our mother Earth will give ye new 
The brilliant pathway to pursue 

Which leads to Death or Victory . . . 

BIGOTRY'S VICTIM 

Published by Hogg. Life of Shelley, 1858. 
Dated in the EsdaUe MS. 1809. 



Dares the lama, most fleet of the sons of 
the wind, 
The lion to rouse from his skull-covered 
lair? 
When the tiger approaches can the fast- 
fleeting hind 
Repose trust in his footsteps of air ? 
No ! Abandoned he sinks in a trance of 
despair, 
The monster transfixes his prey, 
On the sand flows his life-blood away; 
Whilst India's rocks to his death-yells reply, 
Protracting the horrible harmony. 

II 

Yet the fowl of the desert, when danger 
encroaches. 
Dares fearless to perish defending her 
brood. 
Though the fiercest of cloud-piercing ty- 
rants approaches, 
Thirsting — ay, thirsting for blood; 
And demands, like mankind, his brother 
for food; 
Yet more lenient, more gentle than 

they; 
For hunger, not glory, the prey 
Must perish. Revenge does not howl in 

the dead. 
Nor ambition with fame crown the mur- 
derer's head. 

Ill 

Though weak as the lama that bounds on 
the mountains. 
And endued not with fast-fleeting foot- 
steps of air, 
Yet, yet will I draw from the purest of 
fountains. 
Though a fiercer than tiger is there. 
Though more dreadful than death, it scat- 
ters despair. 
Though its shadow eclipses the day, 
And the darkness of deepest dismay 
Spreads the influence of soul-chilling terror 

around. 
And lowers on the corpses, that rot on the 
ground. 

IV 

They came to the fountain to draw from 
its stream. 
Waves too pure, too celestial, for mortals 
to see; 



562 



JUVENILIA 



They bathed for a while in its silvery beam, 

Then perished, and perished like me. 
For in vain from the grasp of the Bigot I 
flee; 
The most tenderly loved of my soul 
Are slaves to his hated control. 
He pursues me, he blasts me ! 'T is in 

vain that I fly; — 
What remains, but to curse him, — to curse 
him and die ? 

ON AN ICICLE THAT CLUNG TO 
THE GRASS OF A GRAVE 

Sent in a letter to Hogg, January 6, 1811, 
and published by him, Life of Shelley, 1858. 
Dated in-the Esdaile MS. 1809. 



Oh ! take the pure gem to where southerly 
breezes 
Waft repose to some bosom as faithful 
as fair, 
In which the warm current of love never 
freezes, 
As it rises unmingled with selfishness 

there. 
Which, untainted with pride, unpolluted 
by care. 
Might dissolve the dim ice-drop, might bid 

it arise. 
Too pure for these regions, to gleam in the 
skies. 

II 

Or where the stern warrior, his country 
defending. 
Dares fearless the dark-rolling battle to 
pour. 
Or o'er the fell corpse of a dread tyrant 
bending, 
Where patriotism red with his guilt- 
reeking gore 
Plants liberty's flag on the slave-peopled 
shore. 
With victory's cry, with the shout of the 

free, 
Let it fly, taintless spirit, to mingle with 
thee. 

Ill 

For I found the pure gem, when the day- 
beam returning 
Ineffectual gleams on the snow-covered 
plain, 



When to others the wished-for arrival of 
morning 
Brings relief to long visions of soul- 
racking pain; 
But regret is an insult — to grieve is in 
vain : 

And why should we grieve that a spirit so 
fair 

Seeks Heaven to mix with its own kindred 
there ? 

IV 

But still 't was some spirit of kindness 
descending 
To share in the load of mortality's woe. 
Who over thy lowly-built sepulchre bending 
Bade sympathy's tenderest tear-drop to 

flow. 
Not for thee soft compassion celestials 
did know, 
But if angels can weep, sure man may re- 
pine. 
May weep in mute grief o'er thy low-laid 
shrine. 



And did I then say, for the altar of glory, 
That the earliest, the loveliest of flowers 
I 'd entwine. 
Though with millions of blood-reeking 
victims 't was gory. 
Though the tears of the widow polluted 

its shrine. 
Though around it the orphans, the father- 
less pine ? 
O Fame, all thy glories I 'd yield for a tear 
To shed on the grave of a heart so sincere. 



LOVE 

Sent by Shelley to Hogg in a letter, May 2, 
1811, and published by him, Life of Shelley^ 

1858. 

W^HY is it said thou canst not live 

In a youthful breast and fair. 
Since thou eternal life canst give, 

Canst bloom forever there ? 
Since withering pain no power possessed, 

Nor age, to blanch thy vermeil hue, 
Nor time's dread victor, death, confessed. 

Though bathed with his poison dew ? 
Still thou retainest unchanging bloom, 
Fixed, tranquil, even in the tomb. 



A TALE OF SOCIETY AS IT IS 



563 



And oh ! when on the blest, reviving, 

The day-star dawns of love. 
Each energy of soul surviving 

More vivid soars above, 
Hast thou ne'er felt a rapturous thrill. 

Like June's warm breath, athwart thee 

fly, 

O'er each idea then to steal, 

When other passions die ? 
Felt it in some wild noonday dream, 
When sitting by the lonely stream, 
Where Silence says, Mine is the dell; 

And not a murmur from the plain, 
And not an echo from the fell. 

Disputes her silent reign. 

ON A FETE AT CARLTON HOUSE 

FRAGMENT 

Repeated from memory by Rev. Mr. Grove 
to Garnett. Published by Rossetti, 1870, and 
dated 1811. 

. . . By the mossy brink, 
With me the Prince shall sit and think; 
Shall muse in visioned Regency, 
Rapt in bright dreams of dawning Royalty. 



TO A STAR 

Sent by Shelley to Hogg- in a letter, and 
published by him, Life of Shelley, 1858, and 
dated 1811. 

Sweet star, which gleaming o'er the dark- 
some scene 
Through fleecy clouds of silvery radiance 

flyest, 
Spanglet of light on evening's shadowy 

veil. 
Which shrouds the day-beam from the 

waveless lake. 
Lighting the hour of sacred love; more 

sweet 
Than the expiring morn-star's paly fires. 
Sweet star ! When wearied Nature sinks 

to sleep, 
And all is hushed, — all, save the voice of 

Love, 
Whose broken murmurings swell the balmy 

blast 
Of soft Favonius, which at intervals 
Sighs in the ear of stillness, art thou aught 

but 



Lulling the slaves of interest to repose 
With that mild, pitying gaze ! Oh, 

would look 
In thy dear beam till every bond of sense 
Became enamoured — 



TO MARY, WHO DIED IN THIS 
OPINION 

One of several poems suggested by a story 
told Shelley by Hogg. Shelley sent it to Miss 
Kitchener, in a letter, November 23, 1811 : ' I 
transcribe a little poem I found this morning. 
It was written some time ago ; but, as it ap- 
pears to show what I then thought of eternal 
life, I send it.' Published by Rossetti, 1870. 



Maiden, quench the glare of sorrow 
Struggling in thine haggard eye ; 

Firmness dare to borrow 
From the wreck of destiny; 
For the ray morn's bloom revealing 
Can never boast so bright an hue 

As that which mocks concealing, 
And sheds its loveliest light on you. 

II 

Yet is the tie departed 
Which bound thy lovely soul to bliss ? 

Has it left thee broken-hearted 
In a world so cold as this ! 

Yet, though, fainting fair one, 
Sorrow's self thy cup has given, 

Dream thou 'It meet thy dear one, 
Never more to part, in heaven. 

Ill 

Existence would I barter 
For a dream so dear as thine. 

And smile to die a martyr 
On affection's bloodless shrine. 

Nor would I change for pleasure 
That withered hand and ashy cheek. 

If my heart enshrined a treasure 
Such as forces thine to break. 



A TALE OF SOCIETY AS IT IS 

FROM FACTS, 181I 

Sent by Shelley (from Keswick) to Miss 
Hitchener, in a letter, January 7, 1812 : ' I 
now send you some poetry ; the subject is not 



564 



JUVENILIA 



fictitious. It is the overflowings of the mind 
this morning. . . . The facts are real ; that 
recorded in the last fragment of a stanza is 
literally true. The poor man said : ' ' None of 
my family ever came to parish, and I would 
starve first. I am a poor man ; but I could 
never hold my head up after that." ' Pub- 
lished by Rossetti, 1870. 



She was an ag^d woman; and the years 
Which she had numbered on her toil- 
some way 
Had bowed ber natural powers to de- 
cay. 
She was an ag^d woman ; yet the ray 
Which faintly glimmered through her 

starting tears, 
Pressed into light by silent misery, 
Hath soul's imperishable energy. 

She was a cripple, and incapable 
To add one mite to gold-fed luxury; 

And therefore did her spirit dimly feel 
That poverty, the crime of tainting stain. 
Would merge her in its depths, never to 
rise again. 

II 

One only son's love had supported her. 
She long had struggled with infirmity. 
Lingering to human life-scenes; for to 

die. 
When fate has spared to rend some 
mental tie. 
Would many wish, and surely fewer dare. 
But, when the tyrant's bloodhounds 

forced the child 
For his cursed power unhallowed arms 
to wield — 
Bend to another's will — become a 
thing 
More senseless than the sword of battle- 
field- 
Then did she feel keen sorrow's keen- 
est sting; 
A.nd many years had passed ere comfort 
they would bring. 

Ill 

For seven years did this poor woman live 

In unparticipated solitude. 

Thou mightst have seen her in the for- 
est rude 

Picking the scattered remnants of its 
wood, 



If human, thou mightst then have learned 

to grieve. 
The gleanings of precarious charity 
Her scantiness of food did scarce sup- 
ply- 
The proofs of an unspeaking sorrow 

dwelt 
Within her ghastly hollo wness of eye: 
Each arrow of the season's change she 
felt. 
Yet still she groans, ere yet her race 
were run, 
One only hope : it was — once more to see 
her son. 

IV 

It was an eve of June, when every star 
Spoke peace from heaven to those on 

earth that live. 
She rested on the moor. 'T was such 

an eve 
When first her soul began indeed to 
grieve ; 
Then he was there ; now he is very far. 
The sweetness of the balmy evening 
A sorrow o'er her aged soul did fling. 
Yet not devoid of rapture's mingled 
tear; 
A balm was in the poison of the sting. 
This ag^d sufferer for many a year 
Had never felt such comfort. She sup- 
pressed 
A sigh — and, turning round, clasped Wil- 
liam to her breast ! 



And, though his form was wasted by the 
woe 
Which tyrants on their victims love to 

wreak, 
Though his sunk eyeballs and his 

faded cheek 
Of slavery's violence and scorn did 
speak. 
Yet did the ag^d woman's bosom glow. 
The vital fire seemed reillumed within 
By this sweet unexpected welcoming. 

Oh, consummation of the fondest hope 

That ever soared on fancy's wildest wing ! 

Oh, tenderness that found'st so sweet 



a scope 



Prince who dost pride thee on thy mighty 
sway, 
When thou canst feel such love, thou shali 
be ^reat as they ! 



TO IRELAND 



565 



VI 

Her son, compelled, the country's foes 
had fought, 
Had bled in battle ; and the stern con- 
trol 
Which ruled his sinews and coerced 

his soul 
Utterly poisoned life's unmingledbowl, 
And unsubduable evils on him brought. 
He was the shadow of the lusty child 
Who, when the time of summer season 
smiled. 
Did earn for her a meal of honesty, 
And with affectionate discourse beguiled 
The keen attacks of pain and poverty ; 
Till Power, as envying her this only joy. 
From her maternal bosom tore the un- 
happy boy. 

VII 

And now cold charity's unwelcome dole 
Was insufficient to support the pair; 
And they would perish rather than 

would bear 
The law's stern slavery, and the insolent 
stare 
With which law loves to rend the poor 

man's soul — 
The bitter scorn, the spirit-sinking noise 
Of heartless mirth which women, men 

and boys 
Wake in this scene of legal misery. 



TO THE REPUBLICANS OF 
NORTH AMERICA 

Sent by Shelley to Miss Kitchener in a let- 
ter February 14, 1812 : ' Have you heard a 
new republic is set up in Mexico ? I have just 
written the following short tribute to its suc- 
cess. These are merely sent as lineaments in 
the picture of my mind. On these two topics 
[Mexico and Ireland] I find that I can some- 
times write poetry when I feel, such as it is.' 
Published by Rossetti, 1870. 



Brothers ! between you and me 
Whirlwinds sweep and billows roar: 

Yet in spirit oft I see 

On thy wild and winding shore 

Freedom's bloodless banners wave, — 

Feel the pulses of the brave 



Unextinguished in the grave, — 

See them drenched in sacred gore, — 
Catch the warrior's gasping breath 
Murmuring * Liberty or death ! ' 

II 

Shout aloud ! Let every slave, 
Crouching at Corruption's throne, 

Start into a man, and brave 

Racks and chains without a groan; 

And the castle's heartless glow, 

And the hovel's vice and woe. 

Fade like gaudy flowers that blow — 
Weeds that peep, and then are gone; 

Whilst, from misery's ashes risen. 

Love shall burst the captive's prison. 

Ill 

Cotopaxi ! bid the sound 

Through thy sister mountains ring, 
Till each valley smile around 

At the blissful welcoming ! 
And, O thou stern Ocean deep, 
Thou whose foamy billows sweep 
Shores where thousands wake to weep 

Whilst they curse a villain king. 
On the winds that fan thy breast 
Bear thou news of Freedom's rest ! 

IV 

Can the daystar dawn of love. 

Where the flag of war unfurled 
Floats with crimson stain above 
The fabric of a ruined world ? 
Never but to vengeance driven 
When the patriot's spirit shriven 
Seeks in death its native heaven ! 

There, to desolation hurled, 
Widowed love may watch thy bier, 
Balm thee with its dying tear. 

TO IRELAND 

Sent by Shelley to Miss Hitchener in th« 
same letter as above, and published in part by 
Rossetti, 1870, and completed by Dowden, 
Life of Shelley, 1887, and Kingsland, Poet- 
Lore, 1892. 

I 

Bear witness, Erin ! when thine injured isle 
Sees summer on its verdant pastures smile, 
Its cornfields waving in the winds that 

sweep 
The billowy surface of thy circling deep I 



566 



JUVENILIA 



Thou tree whose shadow o'er the Atlantic 

gave 
Peace, wealth and beauty, to its friendly 

wave, 

itf blossoms fade, 
And blighted are the leaves that cast its 

shade ; 
Whilst the cold hand gathers its scanty 

fruit, 
Whose chillness struck a canker to its root. 

II 

I could stand 
Upon thy shores, O Erin, and could count 
The billows that, in their unceasing swell. 
Dash on thy beach, and every wave might 

seem 
An instrument in Time, the giant's grasp, 
To burst the barriers of Paternity. 
Proceed, thou giant, conquering and to con- 
quer; 
March on thy lonely way ! The nations fall 
Beneath thy noiseless footstep; pyramids 
That for millenniums have defied the blast, 
And laughed at lightnings, thou dost crush 

to nought. 
Yon monarch, in his solitary pomp, 
Is but the fungus of a winter day 
That thy light footstep presses into dust. 
Thou art a conqueror, Time; all things give 

way 
Before thee but the * fixed and virtuous 

will;' 
The sacred sympathy of soul which was 
When thou wert not, which shall be when 
thou perishest. 



ON ROBERT EMMET'S GRAVE 

Published by Dowden, Life of Shelley, 1887, 
and dated 1812. Shelley mentions the poem 
in a letter to Miss Hitchener, April 18, 1812 : 
' I have written some verses on Robert Emmet 
which you shall see, and which I will insert in 
my book of poems.' 



VI 

No trump tells thy virtues — the grave 
where they rest 
With thy dust shall remain unpolluted by 
fame, 



Till thy foes, by the world and by fortune 
caressed, 
Shall pass like a mist from the light of 
thy name. 

VII 

When the storm-cloud that lowers o'er 
the daybeam is gone. 
Unchanged, unextinguished its life-spring 
will shine; 
When Erin has ceased with their memory 
to groan, 
She will smile through the tears of re- 
vival on thine. 



THE RETROSPECT : CWM ELAN, 

l8l2 

Published by Dowden, Life of SkeVey, 1887. 
Peacock mentions the place : ' Cwni Elan House 
was the seat of Mr. Grove, whom Shelley 
had visited there before his marriage in 1811. 
. . . At a subsequent period I stayed a day at 
Rhayader, for the sake of seeing- this spot. 
It is a scene of singular beauty.' 

A SCENE, which wildered fancy viewed 

In the soul's coldest solitude. 

With that same scene when peaceful love 

Flings rapture's color o'er the grove, 

When mountain, meadow, wood and stream 

With unalloying glory gleam, 

And to the spirit's ear and eye 

Are unison and harmony. 

The moonliglit was my dearer day; 

Then would I wander far away, 

And, lingering on the wild brook's shore 

To hear its unremitting roar, 

Would lose in the ideal flow 

All sense of overwhelming woe; 

Or at the noiseless noon of night 

Would climb some heathy mountain's height, 

And listen to the mystic sound 

That stole in fitful gasps around. 

I joyed to see the streaks of day 

Above the purple peaks decay. 

And watch the latest line of light 

Just mingling with the shades of night; 

For day with me was time of woe 

When even tears refused to flow; 

Then would I stretch my languid frame 

Beneath the wild woods' gloomiest shade, 

And try to quench the ceaseless flame 

That on my withered vitals preyed ; 



THE RETROSPECT 



5^7 



Would close mine eyes and dream I were 
On some remote and friendless plain, 
And long to leave existence there, 
If with it I might leave the pain 
That with a finger cold and lean 
Wrote madness on my withering mien. 

It was not unrequited love 
That bade my 'wildered spirit rove; 
'T was not the pride disdaining life, 
That with this mortal world at strife 
Would yield to the soul's inward sense, 
Then groan in human impotence. 
And weep because it is not given 
To taste on Earth the peace of Heaven. 
'T was not that in the narrow sphere 
Where nature fixed my wayward fate 
There was no friend or kindred dear 
Formed to become that spirit's mate, 
Which, searching on tired pinion, found 
Barren and cold repulse around; 
Oh, no ! yet each one sorrow gave 
New graces to the narrow grave. 

For broken vows had early quelled 
The stainless spirit's vestal flame; 
Yes ! whilst the faithful bosom swelled, 
Then the envenomed arrow came. 
And apathy's unaltering eye 
Beamed coldness on the miserj'^; 
And early I had learned to scorn 
The chains of clay that bound a soul 
Panting to seize the wings of morn, 
And where its vital fires were born 
To soar, and spurn the cold control 
Which the vile slaves of earthly night 
Would twine around its struggling flight. 

Oh, many were the friends whom fame 
Had linked with the unmeaning name. 
Whose magic marked among mankind 
The casket of my unknown mind. 
Which hidden from the vulgar glare 
Imbibed no fleeting radiance there. 
My darksome spirit sought — it found 
A friendless solitude around. 
For who that might undaunted stand. 
The savior of a sinking land, 
Would crawl, its ruthless tyrant's slave, 
And fatten upon Freedom's grave, 
Though doomed with her to perish, where 
The captive clasps abhorred despair. 

They could not share the bosom's feeling, 
Which, passion's every throb revealing, 



Dared force on the world's notice cold 
Thoughts of unprofitable mould, 
Who bask in Custom's fickle ray, 
Fit sunshine of such wintry day ! 
They could not in a twilight walk 
Weave an impassioned web of talk, 
Till mysteries the spirits press 
In wild yet tender awf ulness. 
Then feel within our narrow sphere 
How little yet how great we are ! 
But they might shine in courtly glare, 
Attract the rabble's cheapest stare. 
And might command where'er they move 
A thing that bears the name of love; 
They might be learned, witty, gay, 
Foremost in fashion's gilt array. 
On Fame's emblazoned pages shine. 
Be princes' friends, but never mine ! 

Ye jagged peaks that frown sublime. 
Mocking the blunted scythe of Time, 
Whence I would watch its lustre pale 
Steal from the moon o'er yonder vale; 

Thou rock, whose bosom black and vast. 
Bared to the stream's unceasing flow, 
Ever its giant shade doth cast 
On the tumultuous surge below: 

Woods, to whose depths retires to die 
The wounded echo's melody. 
And whither this lone spirit bent 
The footstep of a wild intent: 

Meadows ! whose green and spangled 

breast 
These fevered limbs have often pressed, 
Until the watchful fiend Despair 
Slept in the soothing coolness there ! 
Have not your varied beauties seen 
The sunken eye, the withering mien. 
Sad traces of the unuttered pain 
That froze my heart and burned my 

brain ? 
How changed since Nature's summer form 
Had last the power my grief to charm. 
Since last ye soothed my spirit's sadness, 
Strange chaos of a mingled madness ! 
Changed ! — not the loathsome worm that 

fed 
In the dark mansions of the dead 
Now soaring through the fields of air, 
And gathering purest nectar there, 
A butterfly, whose million hues 
The dazzled eye of wonder views. 



S68 

Long lingering on a work so strange, 
Has undergone so bright a change. 



How do I feel my happiness ? 
I cannot tell, but they may guess 
Whose every gloomy feeling gone, 
Friendship and passion feel alone; 
Who see mortality's dull clouds 
Before affection's murmur fly. 
Whilst the mild glances of her eye 
Pierce the thin veil of flesh that shrouds 
The spirit's inmost sanctuary. 

O thou ! whose virtues latest known, 
First in this heart yet claim'st a throne; 
Whose downy sceptre still shall share 
The gentle sway with virtue there; 
Thou fair in form, and pure in mind, 
Whose ardent friendship rivets fast 
The flowery band our fates that bind, 
Which incorruptible shall last 
When duty's hard and cold control 
Had thawed around the burning soul, — 
The gloomiest 'retrospects that bind 
With crowns of thorn the bleeding mind, 
The prospects of most doubtful hue 
That rise on Fancy's shuddering view, — 
Are gilt by the reviving ray 
Which thou hast flung upon my day. 



FRAGMENT OF A SONNET 

TO HARRIET 

Published by Dowden, Life of Shelley, 1887, 
and dated August 1, 1812. 

Ever as now with Love and Virtue's glow 
May thy unwithering soul not cease to 

burn, 
Still may thine heart with those pure 

thoughts o'erflow 
Which force from mine such quick and 

warm return. 



TO HARRIET 

Published in part with Notes to Queen Mab, 
1813, and completed by Forman, 1876, and 
Dowden, Life of Shelley, 1887 ; dated 1812. 

It is not blasphemy to hope that Heaven 
More perfectly will give those nameless 
joys 



JUVENILIA 



Which throb within the pulses of the blood 
And sweeten all that bitterness which 

Earth 
Infuses in the heaven-born soul. O thou 
Whose dear love gleamed upon the gloomy 

path 
Which this lone spirit travelled, drear and 

cold, 
Yet swiftly leading to those awful limits 
Which mark the bounds of time and of the 

space 
When Time shall be no more; wilt thou 

not turn 
Those spirit-beaming eyes and look on me, 
Until I be assured that Earth is Heaven, 
And Heaven is Earth ? — will not thy 

glowing cheek. 
Glowing with soft suffusion, rest on mine, 
And breathe magnetic sweetness through 

the frame 
Of my corporeal nature, through the soul 
Now knit with these fine fibres ? I would 

give 
The longest and the happiest day that fate 
Has marked on my existence but to feel 
One soul-reviving kiss. . . . O thou most 

dear, 
'Tis an assurance that this Earth is Hea- 
ven, 
And Heaven the flower of that untainted 

seed 
Which springeth here beneath such love as 

ours. 
Harriet ! let death all mortal ties dissolve, 
But ours shall not be mortal ! The cold 

hand 
Of Time may chill the love of earthly 

minds 
Half frozen now; the frigid intercourse 
Of common souls lives but a summer's day; 
It dies, where it arose, upon this earth. 
But ours ! oh, 't is the stretch of fancy's 

hope 
To portray its continuance as now, 
Warm, tranquil, spirit-healing; nor when 

age 
Has tempered these wild ecstasies, and 

given 
A soberer tinge to the luxurious glow 
Which blazing on devotion's pinnacle 
Makes virtuous passion supersede the power 
Of reason; nor when life's aestival sun 
To deeper manhood shall have ripened me; 
Nor when some years have added judg- 
ment's store 



SONNET 



569 



To all thy woman sweetness, all the fire 
Which throbs in thine enthusiast heart; 

not then 
Shall holy friendship (for what other name 
May love like ours assume ?), not even 

then 
Shall custom so corrupt, or the cold forms 
Of this desolate world so harden us, 
As when we think of the dear love that 

binds 
Our souls in soft communion, while we 

know 
Each other's thoughts and feelings, can we 

say 
Unblushingly a heartless compliment, 
Praise, hate, or love with the unthinking 

world. 
Or dare to cut the unrelaxing nerve 
That knits our love to virtue. Can those 

Beaming with mildest radiance on my heart 
To purify its purity, e'er bend 
To soothe its vice or consecrate its fears ? 
Never, thou second self ! Is confidence 
So vain in virtue that I learn to doubt 
The mirror even of Truth ? Dark flood of 

Time, 
Roll as it listeth thee; I measure not 
By month or moments thy ambiguous 

course. 
Another may stand by me on thy brink. 
And watch the bubble whirled beyond his 

ken, 
Which pauses at my feet. The sense of 

love. 
The thirst for action, and the impassioned 

thought 
Prolong my being; if I wake no more, 
My life more actual living will contain 
Than some gray veterans of the world's 

cold school. 
Whose listless hours unprofitably roll 
By one enthusiast feeling unredeemed. 
Virtue and Love ! unbending Fortitude, 
Freedom, Devotedness and Purity ! 
That life my spirit consecrates to you. 



SONNET 

TO A BALLOON LADEN WITH KNOW- 
LEDGE 

In August, 1812, at Lynmouth, Shelley 
amused himself with sending off fire-balloons 



by air, and boxes and green bottles by water, 
containing his Declaration of Bights, and 
DevWs Walk. Both this and the next poem 
were published by Dowden, Life of Shelley, 
1887, and dated 1812. 

Bright ball of flame that through the 
gloom of even 
Silently takest thine ethereal way, 
And with surpassing glory dimm'st each 
ray 
Twinkling amid the dark blue depths of 

Heaven, — 
Unlike the fire thou bearest, soon shalt thou 
Fade like a meteor in surrounding gloom, 
Whilst that unquenchable is doomed to 
glow 
A watch-light by the patriot's lonely 
tomb; 
A ray of courage to the oppressed and 
poor; 
A spark, though gleaming on the hovel's 
hearth, 
Which through the tyrant's gilded domes 
shall roar; 
A beacon in the darkness of the Earth; 
A sun which, o'er the renovated scene, 
Shall dart like Truth where Falsehood yet 
has been. 



SONNET 

ON LAUNCHING SOME BOTTLES FILLED 

WITH KNOWLEDGE INTO THE BRISTOL 

CHANNEL 

Vessels of heavenly medicine ! may the 
breeze 
Auspicious waft your dark green forms 

to shore; 
Safe may ye stem the wide surrounding 
roar 
Of the wild whirlwinds and the raging seas ; 
And oh ! if Liberty e'er deigned to stoop 
From yonder lowly throne her crownless 
brow. 
Sure she will breathe around your emerald 
group 
The fairest breezes of her west that blow. 
Yes ! she will waft ye to some freeborn 
soul 
Whose eye-beam, kindling as it meets 

your freight. 
Her heaven-born flame in suffering 
Earth will light, 



570 



JUVENILIA 



Until its radiance gleams from pole to 

pole, 
And tyrant-hearts with powerless envy 

burst 
To see their night of ignorance dispersed. 



THE DEVIL'S WALK 

A BALLAD 

Composed at Dublin, 3812, and printed as a 
broadside. It was unknown until 1871, when 
Kossetti recovered it from the copy in the 
Public Record Office where it had been sent 
with the Declaration of Bights and other pro- 
perty of Shelley's supj^osed by government 
agents to be treasonable. For circulating it, 
Shelley's servant, Daniel Healey, was impris- 
oned for six months. Shelley sent an earlier 
draft to Miss Kitchener, January 20, 1812. 



Once, early in the morning, 

Beelzebub arose. 
With care his sweet person adorning, 

He put on his Sunday clothes. 

II 

He drew on a boot to hide his hoof. 

He drew on a glove to hide his claw. 
His horns were concealed by a Bras Cha- 

peau, 
And the Devil went forth as natty a 
Beau 
As Bond-street ever saw. 

Ill 

He sate him down, in London town, 

Before earth's morning ray; 
With a favorite imp he began to chat. 
On religion, and scandal, this and that. 
Until the dawn of day. 

IV 

And then to St. James's court he went, 
And St. Paul's Church he took on his 
way; 

He was mighty thick with every Saint, 
Though they were formal and he was 

gay- 



The Devil was an agriculturist, 

And as bad weeds quickly grow, 



In looking over his farm, I wist, 

He would n't find cause for woe. 

VI 

He peeped in each hole, to each chamber 
stole, 
His promising live-stock to view; 
Grinning applause, he just showed them 

his claws, 
And they shrunk with affright from his 
ugly sight. 
Whose work they delighted to do. 

VII 

Satan poked his red nose into crannies so 
small 
One would think that the innocents 
fair. 
Poor lambkins ! were just doing nothing at 

ill 
But settling some dress or arranging some 
ball. 
But the Devil saw deeper there. 

VIII 

A Priest, at whose elbow the Devil during 
prayer 
Sate familiarly, side by side. 
Declared that, if the tempter were there, 

His presence he would not abide. 
Ah ! ah ! thought Old Nick, that 's a very 

stale trick. 
For without the Devil, O favorite of evil, 
In your carriage you would not ride. 

IX 

Satan next saw a brainless King, 

Whose house was as hot as his own; 
Many imps in attendance were there on the 

wing, 
They flapped the pennon and twisted the 
sting. 
Close by the very Throne. 

X 

Ah, ha ! thought Satan, the pasture is 

good, 
My Cattle will here thrive better than 

others ; 
They dine on news of human blood. 
They sup on the groans of the dying and 

dead. 
And supperless never will go to bed; 

Which will make them fat as their 

brothers. 



THE DEVIL'S WALK 



571 



XI 

Fat as the fiends that feed on blood, 

Fresh and warm from the fields of Spain, 
Where ruin ploughs her gory way. 
Where the shoots of earth are nipped in 
the bud. 
Where Hell is the Victor's prey, 
Its glory the meed of the slain. 

XII 

Fat — as the death-birds on Erin's shore, 
That glutted themselves in her dearest 
gore, 
And flitted round Castlereagh, 
When they snatched the Patriot's heart, 

that his grasp 
Had torn from its widow's maniac clasp, 
And fled at the dawn of day. 

XIII 

Fat — as the reptiles of the tomb, 

That riot in corruption's spoil, 
That fret their little hour in gloom, 
And creep, and live the while. 

XIV 

Fat as that Prince's maudlin brain, 
Which, addled by some gilded toy, 

Tired, gives his sweetmeat, and again 
Cries for it, like a humored boy. 

XV 

For he is fat, — his waistcoat gay, 
When strained upon a levee day. 

Scarce meets across his princely paunch ; 
And pantaloons are like half moons 

Upon each brawny haunch. 

XVI 

How vast his stock of calf ! when plenty 
Had filled his empty head and heart, 

Enough to satiate foplings twenty. 

Could make his pantaloon seams start. 

XVII 

The Devil (who sometimes is called nature), 
For men of power provides thus well. 

Whilst every change and every feature, 
Their great original can tell. 

XVIII 

Satan saw a lawyer a viper slay. 

That crawled up the leg of his table, 

It reminded him most marvellously 
Of the story of Cain and Abel. 



XIX 

The wealthy yeoman, as he wanders 

His fertile fields among, 
And on his thriving cattle ponders. 

Counts his sure gains, and hums a song; 
Thus did the Devil, through earth walk- 

Hum low a hellish song. 

XX 

For they thrive well whose garb of gore 

Is Satan's choicest livery. 
And they thrive well who from the poor 

Have snatched the bread of penury. 
And heap the houseless wanderer's store, 

On the rank pile of luxury. 

XXI 

The Bishops thrive, though they are big; 

The Lawyers thrive, though they are 
thin ; 
For every gown, and every wig. 

Hides the safe thrift of Hell within. 

XXII 

Thus pigs were never counted clean, 
Although they dine on finest corn; 

And cormorants are sin-like lean. 

Although they eat from night to morn. 

XXIII 

Oh ! why is the Father of Hell in such 
glee. 
As he grins from ear to ear ? 
Why does he doff his clothes joyfully. 
As he skips, and prances, and flaps his 

wing, 
As he sidles, leers, and twirls his sting, 
And dares, as he is, to appear ? 

XXIV 

A statesman passed — alone to him. 

The Devil dare his whole shape uncover. 

To show each feature, every limb, 
Secure of an unchanging lover. 

XXV 

At this known sign, a welcome sight, 

The watchful demons sought their King, 

And every fiend of the Stygian night. 
Was in an instant on the wing. 

XXVI 

Pale Loyalty, his guilt-steeled brow. 
With wreaths of gory laurel crowned : 



572 



JUVENILIA 



The hell-hounds, Murder, Want and Woe, 

Forever hungering flocked around; 
From Spain had Satan sought their food, 
'T was human woe and human blood I 

XXVII 

Hark ! the earthquake's crash I hear, — 
Kings turn pale, and Conquerors start, 

Ruffians tremble in their fear. 
For their Satan doth depart. 

XXVIII 

This day fiends give to revelry 
To celebrate their King's return, 

And with delight its sire to see 
Hell's adamantine limits burn. 

XXIX 

But were the Devil's sight as keen 

As Reason's penetrating eye. 
His sulphurous Majesty I ween. 

Would find but little cause for joy. 

XXX 

t'or the sons of Reason see 
That, ere fate consume the Pole, 

The false Tyrant's cheek shall be 
Bloodless as his coward soul. 



FRAGMENT OF A SONNET 

FAREWELL TO NORTH DEVON 

Published by Dowden, Life of Shelley, 1887, 
and dated August, 1812, 



Where man's profane and tainting hand 
Nature's primeval loveliness has marred. 
And some few souls of the high bliss de- 
barred 
Which else obey her powerful command; 

. . . mountain piles 
That load in grandeur Cambria's emerald 
vales. 

ON LEAVING LONDON FOR 
WALES 

Published by Dowden, Life of Shelley, 1887, 
and dated November, 1812. 

Hail to thee, Cambria ! for the unfet- 
tered wind 

Which from thy wilds even now methinks 
I feel, 



Chasing the clouds that roll in wrath be- 
hind. 
And tightening the soul's laxest nerves 

to steel; 
True mountain Liberty alone may heal 
The pain which Custom's obduracies bring, 
And he who dares in fancy even to steal 
One draught from Snowdon's ever sacred 
spring 
Blots out the unholiest rede of worldly 
witnessing. 

And shall that soul, to selfish peace re- 
signed, 

So soon forget the woe its fellows share ? 

Can Snowdon's Lethe from the freeborn 
mind 

So soon the page of injured penury 
tear? 

Does this fine mass of human passion 
dare 

To sleep, unhonoring the patriot's fall, 

Or life's sweet load in quietude to bear 

While millions famish even in Luxury's 
hall. 
And Tyranny high raised stern lowers on 
all? 

No, Cambria ! never may thy matchless 

vales 
A heart so false to hope and virtue 

shield; 
Nor ever may thy spirit-breathing gales 
Waft freshness to the slaves who dare to 

yield. 
For me ! . . . the weapon that I burn to 

wield 
I seek amid thy rocks to ruin hurled. 
That Reason's flag may over Freedom's 

field. 
Symbol of bloodless victory, wave un- 
furled, 
A meteor-sign of love effulgent o'er the 

world. 



Do thou, wild Cambria, calm each strug- 
gling thought; 
Cast thy sweet veil of rocks and woods 

between. 
That by the soul to indignation wrought 
Mountains and dells be mingled with the 

scene; 
Let me forever be what I have been. 
But not forever at my needy door 



THE WANDERING JEW 



573 



Let Misery linger speechless, pale and 

lean ; 
I am the friend of the unfriended poor, — 
Let me not madly stain their righteous 

cause in gore. 



THE WANDERING JEW'S 
SOLILOQUY 

PubUshed by Dobell, 1887. 

Is it the Eternal Triune, is it He 
Who dares arrest the wheels of destiny 
And plunge me in the lowest Hell of Hells ? 
Will not the lightning's blast destroy my 

frame ? 
Will not steel drink the blood-life where it 

swells ? 
No — let me hie where dark Destruction 

dwells, 
To rouse her from her deeply caverned 

lair, 
And taunting her cursed sluggishness to 

ire 
Light long Oblivion's death torch at its 

flame 
And calmly mount Annihilation's pyre. 



Tyrant of Earth ! pale misery's jackal thou ! 
Are there no stores of vengeful violent fate 
Within the magazines of thy fierce hate ? 
No poison in the clouds to bathe a brow 
That lowers on thee with desperate con- 
tempt ? 
Where is the noonday pestilence that slew 
The myriad sons of Israel's favored nation ? 
Where the destroying minister that flew 
Pouring the fiery tide of desolation 
Upon tlie leagued Assyrian's attempt ? 
Where the dark Earthquake demon who 

ingorged 
At the dread word Korah's unconscious 

crew ? 
Or the Angel's two-edged sword of fire 

that urged 
Our primal parents from their bower of 

bliss 
(Reared by thine hand) for errors not their 

own 
By Thine omniscient mind foredoomed, 

foreknown ? 
Yes ! I would court a ruin such as this, 
Almighty Tyrant ! and give thanks to 

Thee — 
Drink deeply — drain the cup of hate — 

remit this I may die. 



DOUBTFUL, LOST AND UNPUBLISHED POEMS 
VICTOR AND CAZIRE 



DOUBTFUL POEMS 

THE WANDERING JEW 

A poem in MS., entitled The Wandering Jew, 
was offered by Shelley to Ballantyne & Co. 
of Edinburgh in the early summer of 1810, and 
declined by them September 24. It was im- 
mediately afterward, on September 28, offered 
by him to Stockdale of London, to whom he 
ordered Ballantyne & Co. to send the MS. ; 
but, as they delayed or failed to do so, he sent 
to Stockdale a second MS. which he had re- 
tained. A poem, thus entitled, was published, 
as by Shelley, in The Edinburgh Literary Jour- 
nal, June 27 and July 4, 1829. The editor 
stated that the MS. was in Shelley's hand- 
writing", and had remained for the preceding 
twenty years in the custody of a literary gentle- 
man of Edinburgh, to whom Shelley in person 
had offered it for publication while on a visit 
to that city. A second version of the same 



poem was published, as by Shelley, and with 
Mrs. Shelley's consent, but without mention of 
the former publication, in Fraser's, July, 1831. 
Lines 435, 443-451, were quoted by Shelley 
as a motto for chapter viii., and lines 780, 782- 
790 for chapter x. of St. Irvyne, 1811. These 
last lines, and lines 1401-1408, were quoted by 
Medwin (Life, i. 56, 58), who ascribes them to 
Shelley, and are given among the Juvenilia by 
Rossetti, Forman and Dowden. The poem, as 
it appeared in Fraser^s, appears to have been 
edited, by omission or alteration or both, and 
Mrs. Shelley's statement made below refers ex- 
clusively to such editing. Three lines are quoted 
in the Introduction to Fraser''s version, as fol- 
lows, — ' There is a pretty, affecting passage 
at the end of the fourth canto, which we dare 
say bore reference to the cloud of family mis- 
fortune in which he [Shelley] was then en- 
veloped : — 

' " 'T is mournful when the deadliest hate 

Of friends, of fortune, and of fate. 

Is levelled at one fated head-" ' 



574 



DOUBTFUL POEMS 



These lines are also quoted by Medwin {Life, i. 
364) as written ' in his seventeenth year,' but 
he does not mention independent authority for 
them. They do not, however, appear in the 
poem as given in either version. Such are the 
facts making for Shelley's authorship. 

On the other hand Medwin claims to have 
written the poem, with aid from Shelley, and 
ascribes to him a concluding portion, embody- 
ing speculative opinions, which has never come 
to light. It is plain that the poem was not 
printed from Medwin's MS., which he does not 
himself seem to have consulted. His memory 
of the past was at best a confused one, as is 
shown by the inaccuracy of his Life of the 
poet ; and, when the matter related to his lit- 
erary partnership with Shelley, as in his trans- 
lations at Pisa, his recollection of the share of 
each in their joint work was, one is compelled 
to think, very feeble indeed. It may, at least, 
be fairly surmised that more of Shelley's work 
goes under Medwin's name than has ever been 
affirmed. In the present instance Medwin's 
assertion of authorship, in which several blun- 
ders are obvious, is of no more value than 
other unsupported and loose statements by him, 
which would certainly be accepted only pro- 
visionally and with doubt. In view of the 
facts above, that Shelley twice offered the poem 
as his own and that it was twice printed from 
different MSS. without Medwin's interposition, 
the claim of a far more trustworthy writer would 
be much impaired. If the internal evidence of 
the poem be appealed to, the opinion that it 
is substantially Shelley's work is as much 
strengthened. The most plausible hypothesis 
is that Shelley worked with Medwin upon the 
subject in prose and in the first versification 
made of the prose ; that he then rewrote the 
■whole, confined the poem to the story, and re- 
served the speculative part, which has never 
appeared, among those early materials out of 
which Queen Mob was made and to which, both 
prose and verse, he referred in saying, that 
Queen Mab was written in his eighteenth and 
nineteenth year, or 1809-10 ; but that The 
Wandering Jew, as we have it, is substantially 
the poem offered by him for publication in 
1810, and that it was Shelley's work and not 
Medwin's, are statements as well supported by 
external and internal evidence as can be looked 
for in such cases. Forman and, though with 
less decision, Dowden reject the poem, and 
therefore it is here placed in this division. 

The following documentary account of it is 
condensed from the Introduction to the reprint 
in the Shelley Society Publications by Mr. 
Bertram Dobell, who discovered the Edinburgh 
1829 version. 

Messrs. Ballantyne & Co. (from Edinburgh) 



to Shelley, September 24, 1810 : ' Sir, — The 
delay which occurred in our reply to you, re- 
specting the poem you have obligingly offered 
us for publication, has arisen from our literary 
friends and advisers (at least such as we have 
confidence in) being in the country at this sea- 
son, as is usual, and the time they have be- 
stowed on its perusal. 

' We are extremely sorry at length, after 
the most mature deliberation, to be under the 
necessity of declining the honor of being the 
publishers of the present poem; not that we 
doubt its success, but that it is perhaps better 
suited to the character and liberal feelings of 
the English, than the bigoted spirit which yet 
pervades many cultivated minds in this coun- 
try. Even Walter Scott is assailed on all 
hands, at present, by our Scotch spiritual and 
evangelical magazines and instructors, for hav- 
ing promulgated atheistical doctrines in The 
Lady of the Lake. 

' We beg you will have the goodness to 
advise us how it should be returned, and we 
think its being consigned to some person in 
London would be more likely to ensure its 
safety than addressing it to Horsham.' Stock- 
dale's Budget, 1827. (Hotten's Shelley, i. 41.) 
Shelley (from Field Place) to Stockdale, 
September 28, 1810 : ' Sir, — I sent, before I 
had the pleasure of knowing you, the MS. of 
a poem to Messrs. Ballantyne & Co., Edin- 
burgh ; they have declined publishing it, with 
the enclosed letter. I now offer it to you, and 
depend upon your honor as a gentleman for a 
fair price for the copyright. It will be sent 
to you from Edinburgh. The subject is The 
Wandering Jew. As to its containing atheis- 
tical principles, I assure you I was wholly un- 
aware of the fact hinted at. Your good sense 
will point out the impossibility of inculcat- 
ing pernicious doctrines in a poem which, as 
you will see, is so totally abstract from any 
circumstances which occur under the possible 
view of mankind.' Stockdale' s Budget, 1827. 
(Hotten, i. 140.) 

Shelley (from University College) to Stock- 
dale, November 14, 1810 : ' I am surprised 
that you have not received The Wandering Jew, 
and in consequence write to Mr. Ballantyne to 
mention it ; you will, doubtlessly, therefore 
receive it soon.' StockdaWs Budget, 1827. 
(Hotten, i. 44.) 

Shelley (from University College) to Stock- 
dale, November 19, 1810 : ' If you have not 
got The Wandering Jew from Mr. B., I will 
send you a MS. copy which I possess.' (Hot- 
ten, i. 44.) 

Shelley (from Oxford) to Stockdale, Decem- 
ber 2, 1810 : ' Will you, if you have got two 
copies of The Wandering Jew, send one of 
them to me, as I have thought of some correc- 



THE WANDERING JEW 



575 



tions which I wish to make ; your opinion on it 
will likewise much oblige me.' Stockdales 
Budget, 1827. (Hotten, i. 45.) 

The Edinburgh Literary journal, No. 32, 
June 20, 1829 : — 

' THE POET SHELLEY 

' There has recently been put into our hands 
a manuscript volume, which we look upon as 
one of the most remarkable literary curiosities 
extant. It is a poem in four cantos, by the late 
poet Shelley, and entirely written in his own hand. 
It is entitled The Wandering Jew, and contains 
many passages of great power and beauty. It 
was composed upwards of twenty years ago, 
and brought by the poet to Edinburgh, which 
he visited about that period. It has since lain 
in the custody of a literary gentleman of this 
town, to whom it was then offered for publica- 
tion. We have received permission to give 
our readers a further account of its contents, 
with some extracts, next Saturday ; and it af- 
fords us much pleasure to have it in our power 
to be thus instrumental in rescuing, through 
the medium of the Literary Journal, from the 
obscurity to which it might otherwise have 
been consigned, one of the earliest and most 
striking of this gifted poet's productions, the 
very existence of which has never hitherto 
been surmised.' [The poem was published, 
Nos. 33, 34 (June 27, July 4, 1829), with the 
following remarks] : — 

' It may possibly have been offered to one 
or two booksellers, both in London and Edin- 
burgh, without success, and this niay account 
for the neglect into which the author allowed 
it to fall, when new cares crowded upon him, 
and new prospects opened round him. Certain 
it is, that it has been carefully kept by the 
literary gentleman to whom he entrusted its 
perusal when he visited Edinburgh in 1811, 
and would have been willingly surrendered by 
him at any subsequent period, had any appli- 
cation to that effect been made. . . . 

' Mr. Shelley appears to have some doubts 
whether to call his poem The Wandering Jew 
or The Victim of the Eternal Avenger. Both 
names occur in the manuscript ; but had the 
work been published, it is to be hoped that he 
would finally have fixed on the former, the 
more especially as the poem itself contains 
very little calculated to give offence to the re- 
ligious reader. The motto on the title-page is 
from the 22d chapter of St. John : " If 1 will 
that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee ? 
— follow thou me." Turning over the leaf, 
we meet with the following Dedication : " To 
Sir Francis Burdett, Bart., M. P., in considera- 
tion of the active virtues by which both his 
public and private life is so eminently distin- 



guished, the following poem is inscribed by the 
Author." Again turning the leaf, we meet 
with the — 

' " PREFACE 

* " The subject of the following Poem is an 
imaginary personage, noted for the various and 
contradictory traditions which have prevailed 
concerning him — the Wandering Jew. Many 
sage monkish writers have supported the au- 
thenticity of this fact, the reality of his exist- 
ence. But as the quoting them would have 
led me to annotations perfectly uninteresting, 
although very fashionable, I decline presenting 
anything to the public but the bare poem, 
which they will agree with me not to be of 
sufficient consequence to authorize deep anti- 
quarian researches on its subject. I might, 
indeed, have introduced, by anticipating future 
events, the no less grand, although equally 
groundless, superstitions of the battle of Ar- 
mageddon, the personal reign of J C , 

etc. ; but I preferred, improbable as the fol- 
lowing tale may appear, retaining the old 
method of describing past events : it is cer- 
tainly more consistent with reason, more inter- 
esting, even in works of imagination. With 
respect to the omission of elucidatory notes, I 
have followed the well-known maxim of ' Do 
unto others as thou wouldest they should do 
unto thee.' — January, 1811." ' 

' The poem introduced by the above Preface 
is in four cantos ; and though the octosyllabic 
verse is the most prominent, it contains a vari- 
ety of measures, like Sir Walter Scott's poeti- 
cal romances. The incidents are simple, and 
refer rather to an episode in the life of the 
Wandering Jew, than to any attempt at a full 
delineation of all his adventures. We shall 
give an analysis of the plot, and intersperse, as 
we proceed, some of the most interesting pas- 
sages of the poem.' 

Medwin, Shelley Papers, pp. 7-9 : ' Shortly 
afterwards we wrote, in conjunction, six or 
seven cantos on the subject of the Wandering 
Jew, of which the first four, with the exception 
of a very few lines, were exclusively mine. It 
was a thing such as boys usually write, a cento 
from different favorite authors ; the crucifixion 
scene altogether a plagiary from a volume of 
Cambridge Prize Poems. The part which I 
contributed I have still, and was surprised to 
find totidem verbis in Eraser^s Magazine. . . . 
As might be shown by the last cantos of that 
poem, which Eraser did not think worth pub- 
lishing, his [Shelley's] ideas were, at that 
time, strange and incomprehensible, mere ele- 
ments of thought — images wild, vast and 
Titanic' 



57^ 



DOUBTFUL POEMS 



Medwin, Life., i. 54-57 : ' Shelley, having 
abandoned prose for poetry, now formed a 
grand design, a metrical romance on the sub- 
ject of the Wandering Jew, of which the first 
three cantos were, with a few additions and 
alterations, almost entirely mine. It was a 
sort of thing such as boys usually write, a cento 
from different favorite authors ; the vision in 
the third canto taken from Lewis's Monk, of 
which, in common with Byron, he was a great 
admirer ; and the crucifixion scene altogether 
a plagiarism from a volume of Cambridge Prize 
Poems. The part which I supplied is still in my 
possession. After seven or eight cantos were 
perpetrated., Shelley sent them to Campbell for 
his opinion on their merits, with a view to 
publication. The author of the Pleasures of 
Hope returned the MS. with the remark that 
there were only two good lines in it : — 

' " It seemed as if an angel's sigh 

Had breathed the plaintive sjmiphony." 

Lines, by the way, savoring strongly of Walter 
Scott. This criticism of Campbell's gave a 
death-blow to our hopes of immortality, and 
so little regard did Shelley entertain for the 
production, that he left it at his lodgings in 
Edinburgh, where it was disinterred by some 
correspondent of JFVaser's, and in whose maga- 
zine, in 1831, four of the cantos appeared. The 
others he very wisely did not think worth 
publishing. 

' It must be confessed that Shelley's contri- 
butions to this juvenile attempt were far the 



best, and those, with my MS. before me, I 
could, were it wortli while, point out, though 
the contrast in the style, and the inconsequence 
of the opinions on religion, particularly in the 
last canto, are sufficiently obvious to mark two 
different hands, and show which passages were 
his. . . . The finale of The Wandering Jew is 
also Shelley's, and proves that thus early he had 
imbibed opinions which were often the subject 
of our controversies. We differed also as to 
the conduct of the poem. It was my wish to 
follow the German fragment, and put an end 
to the Wandering Jew — a consummation 
Shelley would by no means consent to.' [Mr. 
Dobell examines the inconsistencies and the 
precise statements of Medwin at length.] 

jPraser's, July, 1831: 'An obscure contem- 
porary has accused us of announcing for pub- 
lication Shelley's poem without proper author- 
ity. We beg to assure him that we have the 
sanction of Mrs. Shelley. 0[liver] Y[orke].' 

The same : ' The important literary curiosity 
"which the liberality of the gentleman into 
whose hands it has fallen, enables us now to 
lay before the public for the first time, in a 
complete state, was offered for publication by 
Mr. Shelley when quite a boy.' 

Mrs. Shelley, Note on Queen Mab, 1839, i 
102 : ' He wrote also a poem on the subject of 
Ahasuerus — being led to it by a German 
Fragment he picked up, dirty and torn, in 
Lincoln's Inn Fields. This fell afterwards 
into other hands — and was considerably al- 
tered before it was printed.' 



THE WANDERING JEW 

[The passages in italics are from the Edin- 
burgh version.] 

CANTO I 

• Me miserable, which way shall I fly ? 
Infinite wrath and infinite despair — 
Which way I fly is hell — myself am hell ; 
And in this lowest deep a lower deep, 
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.' 

Paradise Lost. 

The brilliant orb of parting day 
Difi^used a rich and mellow ray 
Above the mountain's brow ; 
It tinged the hills with lustrous light, 
It tinged the promontory's height, 
Still sparkling with the snow ; 
And, as aslant it threw its beam. 
Tipped with gold the mountain stream 
That laved the vale below ; 
Long hung the eye of glory there. 
And lingered as if loth to leave 
A scene so lovely and so fair. 



'T were luxury even, there to grieve. 

So soft the clime, so halm the air. 

So pure and genial were the skies. 

In sooth H was almost Paradise, 

For ne'er did the sun's splendor close 

On such a j^icture of repose. 

All, all was tranquil, all was still, 

Save when the music of the rill, 

Or distant waterfall. 

At intervals broke on the ear, 

Which Echo's self was charmed to hear, 

And ceased her babbling call. 

With every charm the landscape glowed 

Which partial Nature's hand bestowed ; 

Nor could the mimic hand of art 

Such beauties or such hues impart. 

Light clouds in fleeting livery gay 

Hung, painted in grotesque array, 

Upon the western sky ; 

Forgetful of the approaching dawn. 

The peasants danced upon the lawn, 

For the vintage time was nigh. 

How jocund to the tabor's sound 

O'er the smooth, trembling turf they bound, 

In every measure light and free. 

The very soul of harmony ! 



THE WANDERING JEW 



577 



Grace in each attitude, they move, 

They thrill to amorous ecstasy, 

Light as the dewdrops of the morn, 

That hang upon the blossomed thorn. 

Subdued by the power of resistless Love. 

Ah ! days of innocence, of joy, 

Of rapture that knows no alloy. 

Haste on, — ye roseate hours, 

Free from the world's tumultuous cares. 

From pale distrust, from hopes and fears, 

Baneful concomitants of time, — 

^T is yours, beneath this favored clime. 

Your pathway strewn with flowers, 

TJx)borne on pleasure'' s downy wing. 

To quaff a long unfading spring. 

Arid beat with light and careless step the ground ; 

The fairest flowers too soon grow sere. 

Too soon shall temx)ests blast the year, 

And sin's eternal winter reign around. 

But see, what forms are those, 

Scarce seen by ghmpse of dim twilight, 

Wandering o'er the mountain's height ? 

They swiftly haste to the vale below. 

One wraps his mantle around his brow. 

As if to hide his woes ; 

And as his steed impetuous flies, 

What strange fire flashes from his eyes ! 

The far-off city's murmuring sound 

Was borne on the breeze which floated around ; 

Noble Padua's lofty spire 

Scarce glowed with the sunbeam's latest fire, 

Yet dashed the travellers on ; 

Ere night o'er the earth was spread, 

Full many a mile they must have sped. 

Ere their destined course was run. 

Welcome was the moonbeam's ray, 

Which slept upon the towers so gray. 

But, hark ! a convent's vesper bell — 

It seemed to be a very spell ! 

The stranger checked his courser's rein, 

And listened to the mournful sound ; 

Listened — and paused — and paused again ; 

A thrill of pity and of pain 

Through his inmost soul had passed. 

While gushed the tear-drops silently and fast. 

A crowd was at the convent gate, 

The gate was opened wide ; 

No longer on his steed he sate. 

But mingled with the tide. 

He felt a solemn awe and dread, 

As he the chapel entered 

Dim was the light from the pale moon beam- 
ing, 

As it fell on the saint-cyphered panes, 

Or, from the western window streaming. 

Tinged the pillars with varied stains. 

To the eye of enthusiasm strange forms were 
gliding 

In each dusky recess of the aisle ; 

And indefined shades in succession Avere strid- 

O'er the coignes^ of the Gothic pile. 

The pillars to the vaulted roof 
In airy lightness rose ; 

^ Buttress or coign of vantage. Macbeth, 



Now they mount to the rich Gothic ceiling aloof 
And exquisite tracery disclose. 

The altar illumined now darts its bright 

rays, 
The train passed in brilliant array ; 
On the shrine Saint Pietro's rich ornaments 

blaze. 
And rival the brilliance of day. 
Hark ! — now the loud organ swells full on the 

ear — 
So sweetly mellow, chaste, and clear ; 
Melting, kindling, raising, firing. 
Delighting now, and now inspiring. 
Peal upon peal the music floats ; 
Now they list still as death to the dying notes ; 
Whilst the soft voices of the choir, 
Exalt the soul from base desire. 
Till it mounts on unearthly pinions free, 
Dissolved in heavenly ecstasy. 

Now a dead stillness reigned around, 

Uninterrupted by a sound ; 

Save when in deadened response ran 

The last faint echoes down the aisle. 

Reverberated through the pile. 

As within the pale the holy man. 

With voice devout and saintly look, 

Slow chanted from the sacred book. 

Or pious prayers were duly said 

For spirits of departed dead. 

With beads and crucifix and hood. 

Close by his side the abbess stood ; 

Now her dark penetrating eyes 

Were raised in suppliance to heaven, 

And now her bosom heaved with sighs, 

As if to human weakness given. 

Her stern, severe, yet beauteous brow 

Frowned on all who stood below ; 

And the fire which flashed from her steady 

gaze. 
As it turned on the listening crowd its rays, 
Superior virtue told, — 
Virtue as pure as heaven's own dew, 
But which, untainted, never knew 
To pardon weaker mould. 
The heart though chaste and cold as snow — 
'T were faulty to be virtuous so. 

Not a whisper now breathed in the pillared 

aisle. 
The stranger advanced to the altar high — 
Convulsive was heard a smothered sigh ! 
Lo ! four fair nuns to the altar draw near. 
With solemn footstep, as the while 
A fainting novice they bear ; 
The roses from her cheek are fled 
But there the lily reigns instead ; 
Light as a sylph''s, her form confessed 
Beneath the drapery of her vest, 
A perfect grace and symmetry ; 
Her eyes, with rapture formed to move. 
To melt ivith tenderness and love. 
Or beam with sensibility. 
To Heaven were raised in pious prayer,, 
A silent eloquence of woe ; 
Now hung the pearly tear-drop there : 



578 



DOUBTFUL POEMS 



Sate on her cheek a fixed despair ; 
And now she beat her bosom bare. 
As pure as driven snow. 

Nine gpraceful novices around 
Fresh roses strew upon the ground ; 
In purest white arrayed, 
Nine spotless vestal virgins shed 
ISabaean incense o'er the head 
Of the devoted maid. 

They dragged her to the altar's pale, 
The traveller leant against the rail. 
And gazed with eager eye, — 
His cheek was flushed with sudden glow, 
On his brow sate a darker shade of woe, 
As a transient expression fled by. 

The sympathetic feeling flew 

Through every breast, from man to man ; 

Confused and open clamoi-s ran — 

Louder and louder still they grew ; 

When the abbess waved her hand, 

A stern resolve was in her eye. 

And every wild tumultuous cry 

Was stilled at her command. 

The abbess made the well-known sign — 

The novice reached the fatal shrine, 

And mercy imploi'ed from the power divine ; 

At length she shrieked aloud, 

She dashed from the supporting nun. 

Ere the fatal rite was done. 

And plunged amid the crowd. 

Confusion reigned throughout the throng — 

Still the novice fled along. 

Impelled by frantic fear, 

When the maddened traveller's eager grasp 

In firmest yet in wildest clasp 

Arrested her career. 

As fainting from terror she sank on the ground, 

Her loosened locks floated her fine form ai'ound ; 

The zone which confined her shadowy vest 

No longer her throbbing bosom pressed, 

Its animation dead ; 

No more her feverish pulse beat high, 

Expression dwelt not in her eye, 

Her wildered senses fled. 



Hark ! Hark ! the demon of the storm ! 
I see his vast expanding form 
Blend with the strange and sulphurous glare 
Of comets through the turbid air. 
Yes, 't was his voice, I heard its roar, 
The wild waves lashed the caverned shore 
In angry murmurs hoarse and loud, — 
Higher and higher still they rise ; 
Red lightnings gleam from every cloud 
And paint wild shapes upon the skies ; 
The echoing thunder rolls around. 
Convulsed with earthquake rocks the ground. 

The traveller yet undaunted stood, 
He heeded not the roaring flood ; 
Yet Rosa slept, her bosom bare. 
Her cheek was deadly pale, 



The ringlets of her auburn hair 

Streamed in a lengthened trail. 

And motionless her seraph form ; 

Unheard, unheeded raved the storm ; 

Whilst, borne on the wing of the gale, 

The harrowing shriek of the white sea-mew 

As o'er the midnight surge she flew, — 

The bowlings of the squally blast, 

As o'er the beetling cliff's it passed, 

Mingled with the peals on high. 

That, swelling louder, echoed by, — 

Assailed the traveller's ear. 

He heeded not the maddened storm 

As it pelted against his lofty form ; 

He felt no awe, no fear ; 

In contrast, like the courser pale ^ 

That stalks along Death's pitchy vale 

With silent, with gigantic tread, 

Trampling the dying and the dead. 

Rising from her deathlike trance. 
Fair Rosa met the stranger's glance ; 
She started from his chilling gaze, — 
Wild was it as the tempest's blaze, 
It shot a lurid gleam of light, 
A secret spell of sudden dread, 
A mystic, strange, and harrowing fear, 
As when the spirits of the dead. 
Dressed in ideal shapes appear. 
And hideous glance on human sight ; 
Scarce could Rosa's frame sustain 
The chill that pressed upon her brain. 

Anon, that transient spell was o'er ; 

Dark clouds deform his brow no more, 

But rapid fled away ; 

Sweet fascination dwelt around. 

Mixed with a soft, a silver sound, 

As soothing to the ravished ear, 

As what enthusiast lovers hear ; 

Which seems to steal along the sky. 

When mountain mists are seen to fly 

Before the approach of day. 

He seized on wondering Rosa's hand, 

' And, ah ! ' ci'ied he, ' be this the band 

Shall join us, till this earthly frame 

Sinks convulsed in bickering flame — 

When around the demons yell. 

And drag the sinful wretch to hell, 

Then, Rosa, will we part — 

Then fate, and only fate's decree. 

Shall tear thy lovely soul from me, 

And rend thee from my heart. 

Long has Paulo sought in vain 

A friend to share his grief ; 

Never will he seek again. 

For the wretch has found relief, 

Till the Prince of Darkness bursts his chain, 

Till death and desolation reign. 

Rosa, wilt thou then be mine ? 

Ever fairest, I am thine ! ' 

He ceased, and on the howling blast, 

Which wildly round the mountain passed, 

1 ' Behold a pale horse, and his name that sate upon 
him was Death, and Hell followed with him.' — i2ere« 
lation, vi. 8. 



THE WANDERING JEW 



579 



Died his accents low ; 

Yet fiercelj' howled the midnight storm, 

As Paulo bent his awful form, 

And leaned his lofty brow. 

ROSA 

' Stranger, mystic stranger, rise ; 

Whence do these tumults fill the skies ? 

Who conveyed me, say, this night, 

To this wild and cloud-capped height ? 

Who art thou ? and why am I 

Beneath Heaven's pitiless canopy ? 

For the wild winds roar around my head ; 

Lightnings redden the wave ; 

Was it the power of the mighty dead. 

Who live beneath the grave ? 

Or did the Abbess drag me here 

To make yon swelling surge my bier ? ' 

PAULO 

* Ah, lovely Rosa ! cease thy fear. 

It was thy friend who bore thee here — 

I, thy friend, till this fabric of earth 

Sinks in the chaos that gave it birth ; 

Till the meteor-bolt of the God above 

Shall tear its victim from his love, — 

That love which must unbroken last, 

Till the hour of envious fate is past, 

Till the mighty basements of the sky 

In bickering hell-flames heated Hy. 

E'en then will I sit on some rocky height. 

Whilst around lower clouds of eternal night ; 

E'en then will I loved Rosa save 

From the yawning abyss of the grave ; 

Or, into the gulf impetuous hurled 

If sinks with its latest tenants the world, 

Then will our souls in union fly 

Throughout the wide and boundless sky ; 

Then, free from the ills that envious fate 

Has heaped upon our mortal state. 

We '11 taste ethereal pleasure ; 

Such as none but thou canst give, 

Such as none but I receive, — ■ 

And rapture without measure.' 

As thus he spoke, a sudden blaze 

Of pleasure mingled in his gaze. 

Illumined by the dazzling light. 

He glows with radiant lustre bright ; 

His features with new glory shine. 

And sparkle as with beams divine. 

'Strange, awful being,' Rosa said, 

' Whence is this superhuman dread. 

That harrows up my inmost frame ? 

Whence does this unknown tingling flame 

Consume and penetrate my soul ? 

By turns with fear and love possessed, 

Tumultuous thoughts swell high my breast ; 

A thousand wild emotions roll, 

And mingle their resistless tide ; 

O'er thee some magic arts preside ; 

As by the influence of a charm. 

Lulled into rest, my griefs subside, 

And, safe in thy protecting arm, 

I feel no power can do me harm. 

But the storm raves wildly o'er the sea, — 

Bear me away ! I confide in thee ! ' 



CANTO II 

' I could a tale unfold, whose slightest word 
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, 
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres ; 
Thy knotted and combined locks to part, 
And each particular hair to stand on end, 
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine. ' 

Hamlet- 

The horrors of the mighty blast. 

The lowering tempest clouds, were passed — 

Had sunk beneath the main ; 

Light baseless mists were all that fled 

Above the weary traveller's head, 

As he left the spacious plain. 

Fled were the vapors of the night. 
Faint streaks of rosy tiiited light 
Were painted on the matin gray ; 
And as the sun began to rise 
To pour his animating ray. 
Glowed with his fire the eastern skies, 
The distant rocks;, the far-off bay. 
The ocean's sweet and lovely blue, 
The mountain's variegated breast. 
Blushing with tender tints of dawn. 
Or with fantastic shadows dressed ; 
The waving wood, the opening lawn. 
Rose to existence, waked anew, 
In colors exqviisite of hue ; 
Their mingled charms Victorio viewed, 
And lost in admiration stood. 

From yesternight how changed the scene. 

When howled the blast o'er the dark cliff's side 

And mingled with the maddened roar 

Of the wild surge that lashed the shore. 

To-day — scarce heard the whispering breeze, 

And still and motionless the seas, 

Scarce heard the murmuring of their tide ; 

All, all is peaceful and serene ; 

Serenely on Victorio's breast 

It breathed a soft and tranquil rest. 

Which bade each wild emotion cease. 

And hushed the passions into peace. 

Along the winding Po he went ; 

His footsteps to the spot were bent 

Where Paulo dwelt, his wandered friend, 

For thither did his wishes tend. 

Noble Victorio's race was proud, 

From Cosmo's blood he came ; 

To him a wild untutored crowd 

Of vassals in allegiance bowed. 

Illustrious was his name ; 

Yet vassals and wealth he scorned to go 

Unnoticed with a man of woe ; 

Gay hope and expectation sate 

Throned in his eager eye. 

And, ere he reached the castle gate, 

The sun had mounted high. 

Wild was the spot where the castle stood 
Its towers embosomed deep in wood ; 
Gigantic cliffs, with craggy steeps, 
Reared their proud heads on high, — 



5S0 



DOUBTFUL POEMS 



Their bases were washed by the foaming deeps, 

Their summits were hid in the sky ; 

From the valley below they excluded the day, 

u'hat valley ne'er cheered by the sunbeam's ray ; 

Nought broke on the silence drear, 

{Save the hunj^ry vultures darting by. 

Or eagles yelling fearfully. 

As they bore to the rocks their prey ; 

Or when the fell wolf ravening prowled, 

Or the gaunt wild boar fiercely howled 

His hideous screams on the night's dull ear. 

Borne on pleasure's downy wing. 

Downy as the breath of spring. 

Not thus fled Paulo's hours away, 

Though brightened by the cheerful day. 

Friendship or wine, or softer love, 

The sparkling eye, the foaming bowl. 

Could with no lasting rapture move. 

Nor still the tumults of his soul. 

And yet there was in Rosa's kiss 

A momentary thrill of bliss ; 

Oft the dark clouds of grief would fly 

Beneath the beams of sympathy ; 

And love and converse sweet bestow, 

A transient requiem from woe. — 

Strange business, and of import vast, 
On things which long ago were past 
Drew Paulo oft from home ; 
Then would a darker, deeper shade, 
By sorrow traced, his brow o'erspread 
And o'er his features roam. 
Oft as they spent the midnight hour. 
And heard the wintry wild winds rave 
Midst the roar and spray of the dashing wave. 
Was Paulo's dark brow seen to lower. 
Then, as the lamp's uncertain blaze 
Shed o'er the hall its partial rays. 
And shadows strange were seen to fall, 
And glide upon the dusky wall, 
Would Paulo start with sudden fear. 
Why then unbidden gushed the tear. 
As he muttered strange words to the ear ? 
Why frequent heaved the smothered sigh ? 
Why did he gaze on vacancy, 
As if some strange form was near ? 
Then would the fillet of his brow 
Fierce as a fiery furnace glow. 
As it burned with red and lambent flame ; 
Then would cold shuddering seize his frame, 
As gasping he labored for breath. 
The strange light of his gorgon eye, 
As, frenzied and rolling dreadfully. 
It glared with terrific gleam. 
Would chill like the spectre gaze of death. 
As, conjured by feverish dream. 
He seems o'er the sick man's couch to stand. 
And shakes the dread lance in his skeleton 
hand. 

But when the paroxysm was o'er, 

And clouds deformed his brow no more, 

WoTild Rosa soothe his tumults dire. 

Would bid him calm his grief. 

Would quench reflection's rising fire, 

And give his soul relief. ^ 

As on his form with pitying eye 



The ministering angel hung. 

And wiped the drops of agony, 

The music of her siren tongue 

Lulled forcibly his griefs to rest ; 

Like fleeting visions of the dead. 

Or midnight dreams, his sorrows fled ; 

Waked to new life, through all his soul 

A soft delicious languor stole. 

And lapped in heavenly ecstasy 

He sank and fainted on her breast- 

'T was on an eve, the leaf was sere, 

Howled the blast round the castle drear, 

The boding night-bird's hideous cry 

Was mingled with the warning sky ; 

Heard was the distant torrent's dash, 

Seen was the lightning's dark red flash, 

As it gleamed on the stormy cloud ; 

Heard was the troubled ocean's roar, 

As its wild waves lashed the rocky shore ; 

The thunder muttered loud, 

As wilder still the lightnings flew ; 

Wilder as the tempest blew. 

More wildly strange their converse grew. 

They talked of the ghosts of the mighty 

dead, — 
If, when the spark of life were fled. 
They visited this world of woe ? 
Or, were it but a fantasy. 
Deceptive to the feverish eye. 
When strange forms flashed upon the sight, 
And stalked along at the dead of night ? 
Or if, in the realms above. 
They still, for mortals left below. 
Retained the same affection's glow. 
In friendship or in love ? — 
Debating thus, a pensive train, 
Thought upon thought began to rise ; 
Her thrilling wild harp Rosa took ; 
What sounds in softest murmurs broke 
From the seraphic strings ! 
Celestials borne on odorous wings 
Caught the dulcet melodies ; 
The life-blood ebbed in every vein, 
As Paulo listen'd to the strain. 



SONG 

What sounds are those that float upon the air. 
As if to bid the fading day farewell, — 
What form is that so shadowy, yet so fair. 
Which glides along the rough and pathless 
dell? 

Nightly those sounds swell full upon the breeze, 
Which seems to sigh as if in sympathy ; 
They hang amid yon cliff-embosomed trees, 
Or float in dying cadence through the sky. 

Now rests that form upon the moonbeam pale, 
In piteous strains of woe its vesper sings ; 
Now — now it traverses the silent vale, 
Borne on transparent ether's viewless wings. 

Oft will it rest beside yon abbey's tower, 
Which lifts its ivy-mantled mass so high; 



THE WANDERING JEW 



S8i 



Rears its dark head to meet the storms that 

lower, 
And braves the trackless tempests of the 

sky. 

That form, the embodied spirit of a maid, 
Forced by a perjured lover to the grave ; 
A desperate fate the maddened girl obeyed, 
And from the dark cliffs plunged into the 
wave. 

There the deep murmurs of the restless surge, 

The mournful shriekings of the white sea- 
mew. 

The warring waves, the wild winds, sang her 
dirge, 

And o'er her bones the dark red coral grew. 

Yet though that form be sunk beneath the 

main, 
Still rests her spirit where its vows were 

given; 
Still fondly visits each loved spot again. 
And pours its sorrows on the ear of Heaven. 

That spectre wanders through the abbey dale. 
And suffers pangs which such a fate must 

share ; 
Early her soul sank in death's darkened vale, 
And ere long all of us must meet her there. 

She ceased, and on the listening ear 

Her pensive accents died ; 

So sad they were, so softly clear. 

It seemed as if some angel's sigh 

Had breathed the plaintive symphony ; 

So ravishingly sweet their close, 

The tones awakened Paulo's woes ; 

Oppressive recollections rose. 

And poured their bitter tide. 

Absorbed awhile in grief he stood ; 

At length he seemed as one inspired. 

His burning fillet blazed with blood — 

A lambent flame his features fired. 

' The hour is come, the fated hour ; 

Whence is this new, this unfelt power ? — 

Yes, I 've a secret to unfold, 

And such a tale as ne'er was told, 

A dreadful, dreadful mystery ! 

Scenes, at whose retrospect e'en now. 

Cold drops of anguish on my brow. 

The icy chill of death I feel : 

Wrap, Rosa, bride, thj'^ breast in steel. 

Thy soul with nerves of iron brace, 

As to your eyes I darkly trace 

My sad, my cruel destiny. 

' Victorio, lend your ears, arise. 

Let us seek the battling skies, 

Wild o'er our heads the thunder crashing. 

And at our feet the wild waves dashing. 

As tempest, clouds, and billows roll, 

In gloomy concert with my soul. 

Rosa, follow me — 

For my soul is joined to thine. 

And thy being 's linked to mine — 

Rosa, list to m^.' 



CANTO III 

' His form had not yet lost 
All its original brightness, nor appeared 
Less than archangel ruined, and the excess 
Of glory obscured ; but his face 
Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care 
Sate on his faded cheek.' 

Paradise Lost. 

PAULO 

'T IS sixteen hundred years ago. 

Since I came from Israel's land ; 

Sixteen hundred years of woe ! — 

With deep and furrowing hand 

God's mark is painted on my head ; 

Must there remain until the dead 

Hear the last trump, and leave the tomb. 

And earth spouts fire from her riven womb. 

Hotv can I paint that dreadful day. 

That time of terror and dismay. 

When, for our sins, a Saviour died. 

And the meek Lamb was crucified ! 

As dread that day, when, borne along 

To slaughter by the insulting throng, 

Infuriate for Deicide, 

I mocked our Saviour, and I cried, 

' Go, go,' ' Ah ! I will go,' said he, 

' Where scenes of endless bliss invite ; 

To the blest regions of the light 

I go, but thou shalt here remain — 

Thou diest not till I come again.' — 

E'en now, by horror traced, I see 

His perforated feet and hands ; 

The maddened crowd around him stands ; 

Pierces his side the ruffian spear. 

Big rolls the bitter anguished tear. 

Hark, that deep groan ! — he dies — he 

dies, — 
And breathes, in death's last agonies. 
Forgiveness to his enemies. 
Then was the noonday glory clouded. 
The sun in pitchy darkness shrouded. 
Then were strange forms through the darkness 

gleaming, 
And the red orb of night on Jerusalem beam- 

Which faintly, with ensanguined light. 
Dispersed the thickening shades of night. 

Convulsed, all nature shook with fear, 

As if the very end was near ; 

Earth to her centre trembled ; 

Rent in twain was the temple'' s veil; 

The graves gave uj) their dead ; 

Whilst ghosts and spirits, ghastly pale, 

Glared hideous on the sight. 

Seen through the dark and lurid air, 

As fiends arrayed in light 

Threw on the scene a frightful glare. 

And, howling, shrieked with hideous yell — 

They shrieked in joy, for a Saviour fell ! 

' Twas then I felt the Almighty'' s ire ; 

Then full on my remembrance came 

Those words despised, alas ! too late ! 

The horrors of my endless fate 



582 



DOUBTFUL POEMS 



Flashed on my soul and shook my frame ; 

They scorched my breast as with a^flame 

Of unextincjuishable fire ; 

An exquisitely torturing pain 

Of frenzying anguish fired my brain. 

By keen remorse and anguish driven, 

I called for vengeance down from Heaven. 

But, ah ! the all- wasting hand of Time 

Might never wear away my crime ! 

I scarce could draw my fluttering breath — 

Was it the appalling grasp of death ? 

I lay entranced, and deemed he shed 

His dews of poppy o'er my head ; 

But, though the kindly warmth was dead, 

The self-inflicted torturing pangs 

Of conscience lent their scorpion fangs. 

Still life prolonging after life was fled. 

Methought what glories met my sight, 

As burst a sudden blaze of light 

Illumining the azure skies, — 

I saw the blessed JSaviour rise. 

But how unlike to him who bled ! 

Where then his thorn-encircled head ? 

Where the big drops of agony 

Which dimmed the lustre of his eye ? 

Or deathlike hue that overspread 

The features of that heavenly face ? 

Gone now was every mortal trace ; 

His eyes with radiant lustre beamed — 

His form confessed celestial grace. 

And with a blaze of glory streamed. 

Innumerable hosts around, 

Their brows with wreaths immortal crowned, 

With amaranthine ehaplets bound, 

As on their wings the cross they bore, 

Deep dyed in the Redeemer's gore. 

Attune their golden harps, and sing 

Loud hallelujahs to their King. 

But in an instant from my sight 

Fled were the visions of delight. 

Darkness had spread her raven pall ; 

Dank, lurid darkness covered all. 

All was as silent as the dead ; 

I felt a petrifying dread. 

Which harrowed up my frame ; 

When suddenly a lurid stream 

Of dark red light, with hideous gleam, 

Shot like a meteor through the night, 

And painted Hell upon the skies — 

The Hell from whence it came. 

What clouds of sulphur seemed to rise ! 

What sounds were borne upon the air ! 

The breathings of intense despair — 

The piteous shrieks — the wails of woe — 

The screams of torment and of pain — 

The red-hot rack — the clanking chain ! 

I gazed upon the gulf below, 

Till, fainting from excess of fear. 

My tottering knees refused to bear 

My odious weight. I sink — I sink ! 

Already had I reached the brink. 

The fiery waves disparted wide 

To plunge me in their sulphurous tide ; 

When, racked by agonizing pain, 

I started into life again. 



Yet still the impression left behind 
Was deeply graven on my mind 
In characters whose inward trace 
No change or time could ere deface ; 
A burning cross illumed my brow, 
I hid it with a fillet gray. 
But could not hide the wasting woe 
That wore my wildered soul away, 
And ate my heart with living fire. 
I knew it was the avenger's sway, 
I felt it was the avenger's ire ! 

A burden on the face of earth, 

I cursed the mother who gave me birth ; 

I cursed myself — my native land. 

Polluted by repeated crimes, 

I sought in distant foreign climes 

If change of country could bestow 

A transient respite from my woe. 

Vain from myself the attempt to fly. 

Sole cause of my own misery. 

Since when, in deathlike trance I lay. 

Passed, slowly passed, the years away 

That i)oured a bitter stream on me ; 

When once I fondly longed to see 

Jerusalem, alas ! my native place, 

Jerusalem — alas ! no more in name — 

No portion of her former fame 

Had left behind a single trace. 

Her pomp, her splendor, was no more. 

Her towers no longer seem to rise 

To lift their proud heads to the skies, — 

Fane and monumental bust 

Long levelled even with the dust. 

The holy pavements were stained with 

gore. 
The place where the sacred temple stood 
Was crimson-dyed with Jewish blood. 
Long since my parents had been dead, 
All my posterity had bled 
Beneath the dark Crusader's spear. 
No friend was left my path to cheer, 
To shed a few last setting rays 
Of sunshine on my evening days ! 

Hacked by the tortures of the mind. 

How have I longed to plunge beneath 

The mansions of repelling death ! 

And strove that resting place to find 

Where earthly sorrows cease ! 

Oft, when the tempestfiends engaged, 

And the warring winds tumultuous raged, 

Confounding skies with seas, 

Then would I rush to the towering height 

Of the gigantic Teneriffe, 

Or some precipitous cliff. 

All in the dead of the silent night. 

I have cast myself from the mountain's height 

Above was day — below was night ; 

The substantial clouds that lowered beneath 

Bore my detested form ; 

They whirled it above the volcanic breath 

And the meteors of the storm ; 

The torrents of electric flame 

Scorched to a cinder my fated frame. 



THE WANDERING JEW 



583 



Hark to the thunder'' s awful crash — 
Jlark to the midnight lightning'' s hiss! 
At length was heard a sullen dash. 
Which made the hollow rocks around 
Rebellow to the awful sound ; 
The yawning ocean opening wide 
Received me in its vast abyss, 
And whelmed me in its foaming tide. 
Though my astounded senses fled. 
Yet did the spark of life remain; 
Then the wild surges of the main 
Dashed and left me on the rocky shore. 
Oh ! would that I had waked no more ! 
Vain wish ! I lived again to feel 
Torments more fierce than those of hell ! 
A tide of keener pain to roll. 
And the bruises to enter my inmost soul ! 

I cast myself in Etna's womb,i 

If haply I niig-ht meet my doom 

In torrents of electric flame ; 

Thrice happy had I found a grave 

'Mid fierce combustion's tumults dire, 

'Mid oceans of volcanic fire 

Which whirled me in their sulphurous wave, 

And scorched to a cinder ray hated frame, 

Parched up the blood within my veins, 

And racked my breast with damning pains, — 

Then hurled me from the mountain's entrails 

dread. 
With what unutterable woe 
Even now I feel this bosom glow — 
I burn — I melt with fervent heat — 
Again life's pulses wildly beat — ■ 
What endless throbbing pains I live to feel ! 
The elements respect their Maker's seal, — 
That seal deep printed on my fated head. 
Still like the scathed pine-tree's height, 
Braving the tempests of the night. 
Have I 'scaped the bickering fire. 
Like the scathed pine which a monument 

stands 
Of faded grandeur, which the brands 
Of the tempest-shaken air 
Have riven on the desolate heath, 
Yet it stands majestic even in death, 
And rears its wild form there. 
Thus have I 'scaped the ocean's roar 
The red-hot bolt from God's right hand, 
The flaming midnight meteor brand. 
And Etna's flames of bickering fire. 
Thus am I doomed by fate to stand, 

1 ' I cast myself from the overhanging summit of the 
gigantic Teneriflfe into the wide weltering ocean. The 
clouds which hung upou its base below, bore up my 
odious weight ; the foaming billows, swoln by the fury 
of the northern blast, opened to receive me, and, bury- 
ing in a vast abyss, at length dashed my almost inani- 
mate frame against the crags. The bruises entered 
into my soul, but I awoke to life and all its torments. I 
precipitated myself into the crater of Vesuvius ; the 
bickering flames and melted lava vomited me up again, 
and though I felt the tortures of the damned, though 
the sulphureous bitumen scorched the blood within 
my veins, parched up my flesh and burnt it to a cinder, 
still did I live to drag the galling chain of existence 
on. Repeatedly have I exposed myself to the tempestu- 
ous battling of the elements ; the clouds which burst 
upon my head in crash terrific and exterminating, and 



A monument of the Eternal's ire ; 
Nor can this being pass away. 
Till time shall be no m.ore. 

I pierce with intellectual eye, 
Into each hidden mystery ; 
I penetrate the fertile womb 
Of nature ; I produce to light 
The secrets of the teeming earth, 
And give air's unseen emlsryos birth ; 
The past, the present, and to come, 
Float in review before my sight ; 
To me is known the magic spell, 
To summon e'en the Prince of Hell ; 
Awed by the Cross upon my head, 
His fiends would obey my mandates dread, 
To twilight change the blaze of noon 
And stain with spots of blood the moon — 
But that an interposing hand 
Restrains my potent arts, my else supreme 
command. — 

He raised his passion-quivering hand, 

He loosed the gray encircling band, 

A burning Cross was there ; 

Its color was like to recent blood. 

Deep marked upon his brow it stood, 

And spread a lambent glare. 

Dimmer grew the taper's blaze, 

Dazzled by the brighter rays, 

Whilst Paulo spoke — 't was dead of night — 

Fair Rosa shuddered with affright ; 

Victorio, fearless, had braved death 

Upon the blood-besprinkled heath ; 

Had heard, unmoved, the cannon's roar, 

Echoing along the Wolga's shore. 

When the thunder of battle was swelling. 

When the birds for their dead prey were yelling, 

When the ensigns of slaughter were stream- 

ing,_ 
And falchions and bayonets were gleaming, 
And almost felt death's chilling hand. 
Stretched on ensanguined Wolga's strand. 
And, careless, scorned for life to cry, 
Yet now he turned aside his eye. 
Scarce could his death-like terror bear. 
And owned now what it was to fear. 

[PAULO] 

Once a funeral met my aching sight. 
It blasted my eyes at the dead of night, 

the flaming thunderbolt, hurled headlong on me its 
victim, stimned but not destroj'ed me. The light- 
ning, in bickering coruscation, blasted me ; and like 
the scattered [? shattered] oak, which remains a 
monument of faded grandeur, and outlives the other 
monarchs of the forest, doomed me to live forever. Nine 
times did this dagger enter into my heart — the ensan- 
guined tide of existence followed the repeated plunge ; 
at each stroke, unutterable anguish seized my frame, 
and every limb was convulsed by the pangs of approach- 
ing dissolution. The wounds still closed, and still I 
breathe the hated breath of life.' 

I have endeavored to deviate as little as possible from 
the extreme sublimity of idea which the style of the 
German author, of which this is a translation, so f orci 
bly impresses. 



5^4 



DOUBTFUL POEMS 



When the sightless fiends of the tempests rave, 
And hell-birds howl o'er the storm-blackened 

wave. 
Nought was seen, save at fits, but the meteor's 

glare 
And the lightnings of God painting hell on the 

air ; 
Nought was heard save the thunder's wild voice 

in the sky, 
And strange birds who, shrieking, fled dismally 

by. 

'T was then from my head my drenched hair 

that I tore, 
And bade my vain dagger's point drink my 

life's gore ; 
'T was then I fell on the ensanguined earth. 
And cursed the mother who gave me birth ! 
My maddened brain could bear no more — 
Hark ! the chilling whirlwind's roar ; 
The spirits of the tonibless dead 
Flit around my fated head, — 
Howl horror and destruction round. 
As they quaff my blood that stains the ground. 
And shriek amid their deadlj^ stave, — 
* Never shalt thou find the grave ! 
Ever shall thy fated soul 
In life's protracted torments roll. 
Till, in latest ruin hurled. 
And fate's destruction, sinks the world ! 
Till the dead arise from the yawning ground. 
To meet their Maker's last decree. 
Till angels of vengeance flit around, 
And loud yelling demons seize on thee ! ' 
Ah ! would were come that fated hour. 
When the clouds of chaos around shall lower ; 
When this globe calcined by the fury of God 
Shall sink beneath his wrathful nod ! — 

As thus he spake, a wilder gaze 

Of fiend -like horror lit his eye 

With a most unearthly blaze. 

As if some phantom-form passed by. 

At last he stilled the maddening wail 

Of grief, and thus pursued his tale : — 

Oft I invoke the fiends of hell. 

And summon each in dire array — 

I know they dare not disobey 

My stern, my powerful spell. 

Once on a night, when not a breeze 

Ruffled the surface of the seas. 

The elements were lulled to rest. 

And all was calm save my sad breast, — 

On death resolved — intent, 

I marked a circle round my form ; 

About me sacred relics spread, 

The relics of magicians dead. 

And potent incantations read — 

I waited their event. 

All at once grew dark the night, 
Mists of swarthiness hung o'er the pale moon- 
light. 
Strange yells were heard, the boding cry 
Of the night raven that flitted by. 
Whilst the silver-wing6d mew, 
Startled with screams, o'er the dark wave flew. 



'T was then I seized a magic wand. 
The wand by an enchanter given, 
And deep dyed in his heart's red blood. 
The crashing thunder pealed aloud ; 
I saw the portentous meteor's glare 
And the lightnings gleam o'er the lurid air ; 
I raised the wand in my trembling hand, 
And pointed Hell's mark at the zenith of Hea- 
ven. 

A superhuman sound 

Broke faintly on the listening air ; 

Like to a silver harp the notes, 

And yet they were more soft and clear. 

I wildly strained my eyes around — 

Again the unknown music floats. 

Still stood Hell's mark above my head — 

In wildest accents I summoned the dead — 

And through the unsubstantial night 

It diffused a strange and fiendish light ; 

Spread its rays to the charnel-house air. 

And marked mystic forms on the dark vapors 

there. 
The winds had ceased — a thick dark smoke 
Frona beneath the pavement broke ; 
Around ambrosial perfumes breathe 
A fragrance, grateful to the sense. 
And bliss, past utterance, dispense. 

The heavy mists, encircling, wreathe. 

Disperse, and gradually unfold 

A youthful female form ; — she rode 

Upon a rosy-tinted cloud ; 

Bright streamed her flowing locks of gold; 

She shone with radiant lustre bright. 

And blazed with strange and dazzling light ; 

A diamond coronet decked her brow, 

Bloomed on her cheek a vermeil glow ; 

The terrors of her fiery eye 

Poured forth insufferable day, 

And shed a wildly lurid ray. 

A smile upon her features played, 

But there, too, sate portrayed 

The inventive malice of a soul 

Where wild demoniac passions roll ; 

Despair and torment on her brow, 

Had marked a melancholy woe 

In dark and deepened shade. 

Under these hypocritic smiles. 

Deceitful as the serpent's wiles. 

Her hate and malice were concealed ; 

Whilst on her guilt-confessing face, 

Conscience the strongly printed trace 

Of agony betrayed. 

And aU the fallen angel stood revealed. 

She held a poniard in her hand. 

The point was tinged by the lightning's 

brand ; 
In her left a scroll she bore, 
Crimsoned deep with human gore ; 
And, as above my head she stood, 
Bade me smear it with my blood. 
She said that when it waa my doom 
That every earthly pang should cease, 
The evening of my mortal woe 
Would close beneath the yawning tomb. 
And, lulled into the arms of death, 



THE WANDERING JEW 



585 



( should resign my laboring breath, 

And in the sightless realms below 

Enjoy an endless reign of peace. 

She ceased — O, God, I thank thy grace, 

Which bade me spurn the deadly scroll ; 

Uncertain for a while I stood — 

The dagger's point was in my blood. 

Even now I bleed ! — I bleed ! 

When suddenly what horrors flew, 

Quick as the lightnings, through my frame ; 

Flashed on my mind the infernal deed. 

The deed which would condemn my soul 

To torments of eternal flame. 

Drops colder than the cavern dew 

Quick coursed each other down my face, 

I labored for my breath ; 

At length I cried, ' Avaunt ! thou fiend of Hell, 

Avaunt ! thou minister of death ! ' 

I cast the volume on the ground. 

Loud shrieked the fiend with piercing yell. 

And more than mortal laughter pealed around. 

The scattered fragments of the storm. 

Floated along the Demon's form. 

Dilating till it touched the sky ; 

The clouds that rolled athwart his eye. 

Revealed by its terrific ray. 

Brilliant as the noontide day. 

Gleamed with a lurid fire ; 

Red lightnings darted around his head, 

Thunders hoarse as the groans of the dead 

Pronounced their Maker's ire ; 

A whirlwind rushed impetuous by. 

Chaos of horror filled the sky ; 

I sunk convulsed with awe and dread. 

When I waked the storm was fled. 

But sounds unholy met my ear. 

And fiends of hell were flitting near. 

Here let me pause — here end my tale, 

My mental powers begin to fail ; 

At this short retrospect I faint ; 

Scarce beats my pulse — I lose my breath, 

I sicken even unto death. 

Oh ! hard would be the task to paint 

And gift with life past scenes again ; 

To knit a long and linkless chain. 

Or strive minutely to relate 

The varied horrors of my fate. 

Rosa ! I could a tale disclose, 

So full of horror — full of woes. 

Such as might blast a demon's ear. 

Such as a fiend might shrink to hear — 

But, no — 

Here ceased the tale. Convulsed with fear. 

The tale yet lived in Rosa's ear — 

She felt a sti'ange mysterious dread, 

A chilling awe as of the dead ; 

Gleamed on her sight the Demon's form ? 

Heard she the fury of the storm ? 

The cries and hideous yells of death ? 

Tottered the ground her feet beneath ? 

Was it the fiend before her stood ? 

Saw she the poniard drop with blood ? 

All seemed to her distempered eye 

A true and sad reality. 



CANTO IV 

OvTOt, yvvaiKa^, cxAAa Topyoua^ \ey<x>' 
vS avTe TopyeCoiaiv eiKacrco tvttois' 

jueAatcat S' es to nau /36eA.v(CTpo7roi' 

pe'-yKOuat S' ou TT-AaTOiert ^vcrLaixavLV 
eK S' bufidruov Aet'/Soucri 6v<r(/)tAi9 ^iav. 

iEscHYLUS, Eumenides, v. 4& 

' What are ye 
So withered and so wild in your attire, 
That look not like th' inhabitants of earth. 
And yet are on't? — Live you, or are you aught 
That man may question ? ' 

Macbeth. 

Ah ! why does man, whom God has sent 

As the Creation's ornament. 

Who stands amid his works confessed 

The first — the noblest — and the best. 

Whose vast — whose comprehensive eye. 

Is bounded only by the sky, 

O'erlook the charms which Nature yields, 

The garniture of woods and fields. 

The sun's all vivifying light. 

The glory of the moon by night, 

And to himself alone a foe, 

Forget from whom these blessings flow ? 

And is there not in friendship's eye. 

Beaming with tender sympathy, 

An antidote to every woe ? 

And cannot woman's love bestow 

An heavenly paradise below ? 

Such joys as these; to man are given. 

And yet you dare to rail at Heaven ; 

Vainly oppose the Almighty Cause, 

Transgress His universal laws ; 

Forfeit the pleasures that await 

The virtuous in this mortal state ; 

Question the goodness of the Power on higho 

In misery live, despairing die. 

What then is man, how few his days. 

And heightened by what transient rays ; 

Made up of j)lans of happiness. 

Of visionary schemes of bliss; 

The varying passions of his mind 

Inconstant, varying as the wind ; 

Now hushed to apathetic rest, 

Now tempested with storms his breast ; 

Now with the fluctuating tide 

Sunk low in meanness, swoln with pride ; 

Thoughtless, or overwhelmed with care, 

Hoping, or tortured by despair ! 

The sun had sunk beneath the hill. 
Soft fell the dew, the scene was still ; 
All nature hailed the evening's close. 
Far more did lovely Rosa bless 
The twilight of her happiness. 
Even Paulo blessed the tranquil hour 
As in the aromatic bower, 
Or wandering through the olive grove. 
He told his plaintive tale of love ; 
But welcome to Victorio's soul 
Did the dark clouds of evening roll ! 
But, ah ! what means his hurried pace. 
Those gestures strange, that varying face j 
Now pale with mingled rage and ire, 
Now burning with intense desire ; 



586 



DOUBTFUL POEMS 



That brow where brood the imp3 of care, 
That fixed expression of despair, 
That haste, that laboring for breath — 
His soul is madly bent on death. 
A dark resolve is in his eye, 
Victorio raves — I hear him cry, 
' Rosa is Paulo's eternally.' 

But whence is that soul-harrowing moan. 
Deep drawn and half suppressed — 
A low and melancholy tone. 
That rose upon the wind ? 
Victorio wildly gazed around. 
He cast his eyes upon the ground, 
He raised them to the spangled air. 
But all was still — was quiet there. 
Hence, hence, this superstitious fear ; 
'T was but the fever of his mind 
That conjured the ideal sound, 
To his distempered ear. 

With rapid step, with frantic haste. 

He scoured the long and dreary waste ; 

And now the gloomy cypress spread 

Its darkened umbrage o'er his head ; 

The stately pines above him high 

Lifted their tall heads to the sky ; 

Whilst o'er his form, the poisonous yew 

And melancholy nightshade threw 

Their baleful deadly dew. 

At intervals the moon shone clear ; 

Yet, passing o'er her disk, a cloud 

Would now her silver beauty shroud. 

The autumnal leaf was parched and sere ; 

It rustled like a step to fear. 

The precipice's battled height 

Was dimly seen through the mists of night, 

As Victorio moved along. 

At length he reached its summit dread. 

The night-wind whistled round his head 

A wild funereal song. 

A dying cadence swept around 

Upon the waste of air ; 

It scarcely might be called a sound. 

For stillness yet was there. 

Save when the roar of the waters below 

Was wafted by fits to the mountain's brow. 

Here for a while Victorio stood 

Suspended o'er the yawning flood, 

And gazed upon the gulf beneath. 

No apprehension paled his cheek. 

No sighs from his torn bosom break. 

No terror dimmed his eye. 

' Welcome, thrice welcome, friendly death,' 

In desperate harrowing tone he cried, 

' Receive me, ocean, to your breast. 

Hush this ungovernable tide, 

This troubled sea to rest. 

Thus do I bury all my grief — 

This plunge shall give my soul relief, 

This plunge into eternity ! ' 

I see him now about to spring 

Into the watery grave : 

Hark ! the death angel flaps his wing 

O'er the blackened wave. 

Hark ! the night-raven shrieks on high 

To the breeze which passes on ; 



Clouds o'ershade the moonlight sky — 

The deadly work is almost done — 

When a soft and silver sound, 

Softer than the fairy song 

Which floats at midnight hour along 

The daisy-spangled ground. 

Was borne upon the wind's soft swell. 

Victorio started — 't was the knell 

Of some departed soul ; 

Now on the pinion of the blast, 

Which o'er the craggy mountain passed. 

The lengthened murmurs roll — 

Till, lost in ether, dies away 

The plaintive, melancholy lay. 

'T is said congenial sounds have power 

To dissipate the mists that lower 

Upon the wretch's brow — 

To still the maddening passions' war — 

To calm the mind's impetuous jar — 

To turn the tide of woe. 

Victorio shuddered with affright, 

Swam o'er his eyes thick mists of night ; 

Even now he was about to sink 

Into the ocean's yawning womb. 

But that the branches of an oak, 

Which, riven by the lightning's stroke, 

O'erhung the precipice's brink. 

Preserved him from the billowy tomb ; 

Quick throbbed his pulse with feverish heat, 

He wildly started on his feet, 

And rushed from the mountain's height. 

The moon was down, but through the air 
Wild meteors spread a transient glare ; 
Borne on the wing of the swelling gale. 
Above the dark and woody dale, 
Thick clouds obscured the sky. 
All was now wrapped in silence drear, 
Not a whisper broke on the listening ear, 
Not a murmur floated by. 

In thought's perplexing labyrinth lost 
The trackless heath he swiftly crossed. 
Ah ! why did terror blanch his cheek ? 
Why did his tongue attempt to speak. 
And fail in the essay ? 
Through the dark midnight mists an eye, 
Flashing with crimson brilliancy, 
Poured on his face its ray. 
' What sighs pollute the midnight air ? 
What mean those breathings of despair ? ' 
Thus asked a voice, whose hollow tone 
Might seem but one funereal moan. 
Victorio groaned, with faltering breath, 
' I burn with love, I pant for death ! ' 

Suddenly a meteor's glare. 

With brilliant flash illumed the air ; 

Bursting through clouds of sulphurous smoke, 

As on a Witch's form it broke. 

Of herculean bulk her frame 

Seemed blasted by the lightning's flame : 

Her eyes that flared with lurid light, 

Were now with bloodshot lustre filled. 

They blazed like comets through the night. 

And now thick rheumy gore distilled ; 



THE WANDERING JEW 



587 



Black as the raven's plume, her locks 
Loose streamed upon the pointed rocks ; 
Wild floated on the hollow gale, 
Or swept the gi'ound in matted trail ; 
Vile loathsome weeds, whose pitchy fold 
Were blackened by the fire of Hell, 
Her shapeless limbs of giant mould 
Scarce served to hide — as she the while 
' Grinned horribly a ghastly smile,' 
And shrieked with demon yell. 

Terror unmanned Victorio's mind. 

His limbs, like lime leaves in the wind. 

Shook, and his brain in wild dismay 

Swam — vainly he strove to turn away. 

' Follow me to the mansions of rest,' 

The weird female cried ; 

The life-blood rushed through Victorio's breast 

In full and swelling tide. 

Attractive as the eagle's gaze. 

And bright as the meridian blaze, 

Led by a sanguine stream of light. 

He followed through the shades of night — 

Before him his conductress fled, 

As swift as the ghosts of the dead. 

When on some dreadful errand they fly. 

In a thunderblast sweeping the sky. 

They reached a rock whose beetling height 

Was dimly seen through the clouds of night ; 

Illumined by the meteor's blaze. 

Its wild crags caught the reddened rays 

And their refracted brilliance threw 

Around a solitary yew, 

Which stretched its blasted form on high, 

Braving the tempests of the sky. 

As glared the flame, a caverned cell, 

More pitchy than the shades of hell. 

Lay open to Victorio's view. 

Lost for an instant was his guide ; 

He rushed into the mountain's side. 

At length with deep and harrowing yell 

She bade him quickly speed. 

For that ere again had risen the moon 

'T was fated that there must be done 

A strange — a deadly deed. 

Swift as the wind Victorio sped ; 

Beneath him lay the mangled dead ; 

Around dank putrefaction's power 

Had caused a dim blue mist to lower. 

Yet an unfixed, a wandering light 

Dispersed the thickening shades of night ; 

Yet the weird female's features dire 

Gleamed through the lurid yellow air, 

With a deadly livid fire. 

Whose wild, inconstant, dazzling light 

Dispelled the tenfold shades of night. 

Whilst her hideous fiendlike eye, 

Fixed on her victim with horrid stare, 

Flamed with more kindled radiancy ; 

More frightful far than that of Death, 

When exulting he stalks o'er the battle heath ; 

Or of the dread prophetic form. 

Who rides the curled clouds in the storm, 

And borne upon the tempest's wings, 

Death, despair, and horror brings. 



Strange voices then and shrieks of death 

Were borne along the trackless heath ; 

Tottered the ground his steps beneath ; 

Rustled the blast o'er the dark cliff's side, 

And their works unhallowed spirits plied. 

As they shed their baneful breath. 

Yet Victorio hastened on — 

Soon the dire deed will be done. 

' Mortal,' the female cried, ' this night 

Shall dissipate thy woe ; 

And, ere return of morning light, 

The clouds that shade thy brow 

Like fleeting summer mists shall fly 

Before the sun that mounts on high. 

I know the wishes of thy heart — 

A soothing balm I could impart : 

Rosa is Paulo's — can be thine. 

For the secret power is mine.' 

VICTOKIO 

Give me that secret power — Oh ! give 
To me fair Rosa — I will live 
To bow to thy command. 
Rosa but mine — and I will fly 
E'en to the regions of the sky, 
WiU traverse every land. 

WITCH 

Calm then those transports and attend. 
Mortal, to one, who is thy friend — 
The charm begins. — 

An ancient book 
Of mystic characters she took ; 
Her loose locks floated on the air ; 
Her eyes were fixed in lifeless stare ; 
She traced a circle on the floor. 
Around dank chilling vapors lower ; 
A golden cross on the pavement she threw, 
'T was tinged with a flame of lambent blue,^ 
From which bright scintillations flew ; 
By it she cursed her Saviour's soul ; 
Around strange fiendish laughs did roll, 
A hollow, wild, and frightful sound, 
At fits was heard to float around. 
She uttered then, in accents dread. 
Some maddening rhyme that wakes the dead; 
And forces every shivering fiend 
To her their demon-forms to bend ; 
At length a wild and piercing shriek. 
As the dark mists disperse and break, 
Announced the coming Prince of Hell — 
His horrid form obscured the cell. 
Victorio shrunk, unused to shrink. 
E'en at extremest danger's brink ; 
The witch then pointed to the ground, 
Infernal shadows flitted around 
And with their Prince were seen to rise ; 
The cavern bellows with their cries, 
Which, echoing through a thousand caves, 
Sound like as many tempest waves. 

Inspired and wrapped in bickering flame. 
The strange, the awful being stood. 
Words unpremeditated came 
In unintellisrible flood 



588 



DOUBTFUL POEMS 



From her black tumid lips, arrayed 

In livid fiendish smiles of joy ; 

Lips, which now dropped with deadly dew 

And now, extending wide, displayed 

Projecting teeth of mouldy hue. 

As with a loud and piercing cry 

A mystic, harrowing lay she sang ; 

Along the rocks a death-peal rang ; 

In accents hollow, deep and drear, 

They struck upon Victorio's ear. 

As ceased the soul-appalling verse, 

Obedient to its power grew still 

The hellish shrieks ; the mists disperse ; 

Satan — a shadeless, hideous beast — 

In all his horrors stood confessed ! 

And as his vast proportions Jill 

The lofty cave, his features dire 

Gleam with a j^ale and sulphurous fire ; 

From his fixed glance of deadly hate 

Even she shrunk back, appalled with dread — 

For there contempt and malice sate, 

And from his basiliskine eye 

Sparks of living fury fly, 

Which wanted but a being to strike dead. 

A wilder, a more awful spell 

Now echoed through the long-drawn cell ; 

The demon bowed to its mandates dread. 

' Receive this potent drug,' he cried, 

' Whoever quaffs its fatal tide, 

Is mingled with the dead.' 

Swept by a rushing sulphurous blast. 

Which wildly through the cavern passed, 

The fatal word was borne. 

The cavern trembled with the sound, ^ 

Trembled beneath his feet the ground ; 

With strong convulsions torn, 

Victorio, shuddering, fell ; 

But soon awakening from his trance. 

He cast around a fearful glance. 

Yet gloomy was the cell, 

Save where a lamp's un<jertain flare 

Cast a flickering, dying glare. 

WITCH 

Receive this dear-earned drug — its power 
Thou, mortal, soon shalt know : 
This drug shall be thy nuptial dower, 
This drug shall seal thy woe. 
Mingle it with Rosa's wine, 
Victorio — Rosa then is thine. 

She spake, and, to confirm the spell, 
A strange and subterranean sound 
Reverberated long around 
In dismal echoes — the dark cell 
Rocked as in terror — through the sky 
Hoarse thunders murmured awfully. 
And, winged with horror, darkness spread 
Her mantle o'er Victorio's head. 
He gazed around with dizzy fear, 
No fiend, no witch, no cave, was near ; 
But the blasts of the forest were heard to roar. 
The wild ocean's billows to dash on the shore. 

1 'Death! 
Hell trembled at the hideoTis name and sighed 
From all its caves, and back resounded death.' 

Paradise Lost. 



The cold winds of Heaven struck chill on his 
frame ; 

For the cave had been heated by hell's black- 
ening flame. 

And his hand grasped a casket — the philtre 
was there ! 

Sweet is the whispering of the breeze 
Which scarcely sways yon summer trees ; 
Sweet is the pale moon's pearly beam, 
Which sleeps upon the silver stream, 
In slumber cold and still : 
Sweet those wild notes of harmony, 
Are wafted from yon hill ; 
Which on the blast that passes by, 
So low, so thrilling, yet so clear. 
Which strike enthusiast fancy's ear, — 
Which sweep along the moonlight sky. 
Like notes of heavenly symphony. 

SONG 

See yon opening flower 

Spreads its fragrance to the blast ; 

It fades within an hour, 

Its decay is pale, is fast. 

Paler is yon maiden ; 

Faster is her heart's decay ; 

Deep with sorrow laden. 

She sinks in death away. 

'T is the silent dead of night — 

Hark ! hark ! what shriek so low yet clear. 

Breaks on calm rapture's pensive ear 

From Lara's castled height ? 

'T was Rosa's death-shriek fell ! 

What sound is that which rides the blast. 

As onward its fainter murmurs passed ? 

'T is Rosa's funeral knell ! 

What step is that the ground which shakes ? 

'Tis the step of a wretch. Nature shrinks from 
his tread ; 

And beneath their tombs tremble the shudder- 
ing dead ; 

And while he speaks the churchyard quakes 

PAULO 

Lies she therefor the worm to devour, 

Lies she there till the judgment hour. 

Is then my Rosa dead ! 

False fiend ! I curse thy futile power ! 

O^er her form will lightnings flcLsh, 

Cer her form will thunders crash. 

But harmless from my head 

Will the fierce tempest'' s fury fly. 

Rebounding to its native sky. — 

Who is the God of Mercy ? — where 

Enthroned the power to save ? 

Reigns he above the vieivless air ? 

Lives he beneath the grave ? 

To him would I lift my suppliant moan, 

That power should hear my harrowing groan ; — 

Is it then ChrisVs terrific Sire ? 

Ah ! I have felt his burning ire, 

I feel, — I feel it now, — 

His flaming mark is fixed on my head. 

And must there remain in traces dread : 



LOST POEMS 



589 



Wild anguish glooms my brow ; 

t>h ! Griefs like mine that fiercely burn 

Where is the halm can heal ! 

Where is the monumental urn 

Can hid to dust this frame return. 

Or quench the pa tigs I feel ! 

As thus he spoke grew dark the sky. 
Hoarse thunders murmured awfully, 
' O Demon ! I am thine ! ' he cried. 
A hollow fiendish voice replied, 
' Come ! for thy doom is misery.'' 



THE DINNER PARTY ANTICIPATED : A PARA- 
PHRASE OF HORACE III. 19 

This poem was found by Fornian among the 
Hunt MSS. in Mrs. Shelley's handwriting. It 
was printed in Hunt's Comj^anion, March 2(), 
1828, without the name of the translator. There 
is no other evidence that it was written by 
Shelley, and it is rejected by Dowden. 

THE MAGIC HORSE : TRANSLATED FROM THE 
ITALIAN OF CRISTOFANO BRONZINO 

This poem forms a continuous manuscript 
with that of the preceding, and is also rejected 
by Dowden. 

TO THE QUEEN OF MY HEART 

Published by Med win, the Shelley Papers, 
1833, and by Mrs. Shelley, 1839, 1st ed., and 
also by Forman and Dowden. Mrs. Shelley 
omitted it in her second edition, with the fol- 
lowing note : ' It was suggested that the poem 
To the Queen of My Heart was falsely attributed 
to Shelley ; and certainly I find no trace of it 
among his papers ; and, as those of his intimate 
friends whom I have consulted never heard of 
it, I omit it.' The story of the hoax is told in 
the Eclectic Review, 1851 (ii.), 66 : 'It is curious 
to observe the wisdom and penetration of those 
who have at all mingled in literary society. 
They read an author, study his peculiarities and 
style, and imagine they perfectly understand 
his whole system of thought, and could detect 
one mistake instantly. But to show that even 
authors themselves are not always infallible 
judges, we will relate an anecdote which has 
never yet been made public, though, having 
received it from an undoubted source, we ven- 
ture to vouch for its veracity. Shelley, whose 
poems many years ago were so much read and 
admired, necessarily excited much discussion in 
literary circles. A party of literary men were 
one evening engaged in canvassing his merits, 
when one of them declared that he knew the 
turns of Shelley's mind so well that amongst a 
thousand anonymous pieces he would detect his, 
no matter when published. Mr. James Au- 
gustus St. John, who was present, not liking 
the blustering tone of the speaker, remarked 
that he thought he was mistaken, and that it 
would, amongst so many, be diffieult to trace 



the style of Shelley. Every one present, how- 
ever, sided with his opponent, and agi-eed that 
it was perfectly impossible that any one could 
imitate his style. A few days after, a poem, 
entitled To the Queen of My Heart, appeared 
in the London Weekly Review, with Shelley's 
signature, but written by Mr. St. John himself. 
The same coterie met and discussed the poem 
brought to their notice, and prided themselves 
much upon their discrimination : said they at 
once recognized the " style of Shelley, could not 
be mistaken, his soul breathed through it — it 
was himself." And so The Queen of My Heart 
was settled to be Shelley's ! and to this day it 
is numbered with his poems (see Shelley's 
Works, edited by Mrs. Shelley, vol. iv. p. 166. 
It deceived even his wife), ana very few are in 
the secret that it is not actually his. The imi- 
tation was perfect, and completely deceived 
every one, much to the discomfiture of all con- 
cerned.' 



LOST POEMS 

Horsham Publication. Reminiscences of a 
Newspaj)er Editor, Eraser'' s, June, 1841 : ' It 
was his [Sir Bysshe Shelley] purse which sup- 
plied young Bysshe with the means of printing 
many of his fugitive pieces. These issued from 
the press of a printer at Horsham named Phil- 
lips ; and although they were not got up in good 
style, the expense was much greater than Shel- 
ley could have afforded, if he had not received 
assistance from his grandfather.' No examples 
are known. 

An Essay on Love. Shelley (from Keswick) 
to Godwin, January 16, 1812 : ' I have desired 
the publications of my early youth to be sent to 
you. You will perceive that Zastrozzi and St. 
Irvyne were written prior to my acquaintance 
with your writings — the Essay on Love, a little 
poem, since.' Hogg, ii. 62. No copy is known. 

A Poetical Essay on the Existing State oj 
Things. The Oxford Herald, March 9, 1811 : 
' Literature. Just published, Price Two Shil- 
lings, A Poetical Essay on the Existing State of 
Things. 

And Famine at her bidding wasted wide 
The Wretched Land, till in the Public way, 

Promiscuous where the dead and dying lay. 
Dogs fed on human bones in the open light of day. 

Curse of Kehama 

By a Gentleman of the University of Oxford. 
For assisting to maintain in prison Mr. Peter 
Finnerty, imprisoned for a libel. London : sold 
by B. Crosby & Co., and all other book-sellers. 
1811.' No copy is known. The following are 
all the contemporary notices of it. 

The Weekly Messenger, Dublin, March 7, 
1812 : ' Mr. Shelley, commiserating the suffer- 
ings of our distinguished countryman, Mr. Fin- 
nerty, whose exertions in the cause of political 
freedom he much admired, wrote a very beau- 
tiful poem, the profits of which we understand, 
from undoubted authority, Mr, Shelley remitted 



590 



UNPUBLISHED POEMS 



to Mr. Finnerty : we have heard they amounted 
to nearly one hundred pounds.' MacCarthy, 
Shelley'' s Early Life, ^. 255. 

A Diary, Illustrative of the Times of George 
the Fourth. C. Kirkpatrick Sharpe (from 

Christ Church, Oxford) to March 15, 

1811 : — 

' Talking of books, we have lately had a lit- 
erary Sun shine forth upon us here, before whom 
our former luminaries must hide their dimin- 
ished heads — a Mr, Shelley, of University Col- 
lege, who lives upon arsenic, aqua-fortis, half- 
an-hour's sleep in the night, and is desperately 
in love with the memory of Margaret Nicholson. 
He hath published what he terms the Posthu- 
mous Poems, printed for the benefit of Mr. 
Peter Finnerty, which, I am grieved to say, 
though stuffed full of treason, is extremely dull, 
but the Author is a great genius, and if he be 
not clapped up in Bedlam or hanged, will cer- 
tainly prove one of the sweetest swans on the 
tuneful margin of the Charwell. . . . Our 
A-pollo next came out with a prose pamphlet in 
praise of atheism . . . and there appeared a 
monstrous romance in one volume, called tSt. 
Ircoyne [sic], or the Rosicrucian. Shelley's last 
axhibition is a Poem on the State of Public Af- 
fairs.^ Forman, Shelley Library, pp. 21, 22. 

From these conflicting statements it appears 
certain that Shelley printed some poem for the 
benefit of Finnerty. The profits (£100) may 
refer to the public subscription made for Fin- 
nerty to which Shelley was a contributor. See 
The Satire 0/I8II, below. 

Lines on a Fete at Carlton House. C. H. 
Grove to Miss Helen Shelley, February 25, 
1857 : ' I forgot to mention before, that during 
the early part of the summer which Bysshe 
spent in town after leaving Oxford the Prince 
Regent gave a splendid fete at Carlton House, 
in which the novelty was introduced of a stream 
of water, in imitation of a river, meandering 
down the middle of a very long table in a tem- 
porary tent erected in Carlton Gardens. This 
was much commented upon in the papers, and 
laughed at by the Opposition. Bysshe also was 
of the number of those who disapproved of the 
fete and its accompaniments. He wrote a 
poem on the subject of about fifty lines, which 
he published immediately, wherein he apostro- 
phized the Prince as sitting on the bank of his 
tiny river : and he amused himself with throw- 
ing copies into the carriages of persons going to 
Carlton House after the fete.' Hogg, ii. 556, 
557. 

No copy of this poem is known, but some 
lines from it will be found in Juvenilia. A 
burlesque letter from Shelley to Graham, no 
date, is connected with this poem by Forman, 
Shelley Library, p. 24, and by Dowden, i. 136, 
137, but it seems doubtful whether the Ode, 
there mentioned, is not the translation of the 
Marseillaise Hymn, of which one stanza is there 
given. 

Satire : 1811. Shelley (from Field Place) to 
Hogg, December 20, 1810: 'I am composing a 
mtirical poem : I shall print it at Oxford, unless 



I find on visiting him that Il[obinson] is ripe 
for printing whatever will sell. In case of that 
he is ray man.' Hogg, i. 143. 

Thornton Hunt : note on 2'he Autobiographp 
of Leigh Hunt, ii. 21: 'Mr. Kowland Hunter, 
who first brought Leigh Hunt and his most 
valued friend personally together. Shelley had 
brought a manuscript poem, which proved by 
no means suited to the publishing house in St. 
Paul's Churchyard. But Mr. Hunter sent the 
young reformer to seek the counsel of Leigh 
Hunt.' 

Forman suggests that the manuscript poem 
offered to Hunter was the same mentioned in 
the letter to Hogg : and he conjectures, that a 
poem entitled ' Lines addressed to His Royal 
Highness, the Prince of Wales, on his being ap- 
pointed Regent,^ by Philopatria, Jr., and printed 
in London by Sherwood, Neely & Jones (later 
connected with the publication of Laon and 
Cythna) 1811, is the missing satire. Dowden 
rejects the cojjecture. 

MacCarthy {Shelley's Early Life, 102-106) con- 
jectures that the Poetical Essay on the Existing 
State of Things is the missing satire. 

The Creator. Shelley (from the Baths of San 
Giuliano) to Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne June 5, 
1821 : ' My unfortunate box ! ... If the idea 
of The Creator had been packed up with them it 
would have shared the same fate ; and that, I 
am afraid, has undergone another sort of ship- 
wreck.' Mrs. Shelley, Essays and Letters, ii. 
294. 

Mrs. Shelley to Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne, June 
30, 1821 : ' The Creator has not yet made himself 
heard.' Dowden, ii. 413. 

Possibly connected with the plans of this sum- 
mer, vaguely alluded to in letters to Oilier, or 
with the drama on the Book of Job, and hardly 
begun. There is no other reference to it, but a 
familiar quotation of Shelley's from Tasso, — 
' non c' 6 in mondo chi merita nome di creatore 
che Dio ed il Poeta,' — (Shelley to Peacock, 
August 16, 1818), may be connected with the 
title. 



UNPUBLISHED POEMS 

Shelley to Graham. A poetical _ epistle de- 
scribed by Forman (Aldine edition i. xix.), who 
gives from it the following lines, referring to 
Shelley's younger brother John. 

' I have been 
With little Jack upon the green — 
A dear delightful red-faced brute. 
And setting up a parachute.' 

Esdaile Manuscript. A manuscript boo)* 
containing poems, which Shelley intended to 
publish simultaneously with Queen Mab, in the 
possession of his grandson, Mr. Esdaile, is partly 
described by Dowden. Shelley's references ta 
this volume are as follows : — 

Shellej /fromTanyrallt) toHookham, Januarj 
2, 1813 : ' My poems will, I fear, little stand tht 



UNPUBLISHED POEMS 



59^ 



criticism even of friendship : some of the later 
ones have the merit of conveying a meaning in 
every word, and all are faithful pictures of my 
feelings at the time of writing them. But they 
are in a great measure abrupt and obscure — all 
breathing hatred to government and religion, 
but I think not too openly for publication. One 
fault they are indisputably exempt from, that 
of being a volume of fashionable literature. I 
doubt not but that your friendly hand will cHp 
the wings of my Pegasus considerably.' Dow- 
den, i. o44. [Shelley Memorials, pp. 50, 51, 
omits some parts.] 

Shelley (from Tanyrallt) to Hookham, Febru- 
ary 19, 1S13 : ' You will receive it [Queen Mab] 
with the other poems. I think that the whole 
should form one volume.' Shelley Memorials, 
p. 52. [Hogg, ii. 183, modifies the text.] 

Shelley (from Tanyrallt) to Hookham, De- 
cember 17, 1812 : ' I am also preparing a volume 
of minor poems, respecting whose publication I 
shall expect your judgment, both as publisher 
and friend, A very obvious question would be — 
Will they sell or not ? ' Shelley Memorials, p. -48. 

Shelley (from Tanyrallt) to Hookham, Janu- 
ary 26, 1813 : ' Queen Mab . . . will contain 
about twenty-eight hundred lines ; the other 
poems contain probably as much more.' Hogg, 
ii. 182. 

Shelley (from Keswick) to Miss Kitchener, 
January 26, 1812 : ' I have been busily engaged 
in the Address to the Irish people, which will 
be printed as Paine's works were, and posted 
on the walls of Dublin. My poems will be 
printed there.' MacCarthy, Shelley'' s^ Early 
Life, p. 133. 

The contents of this volume are described by 
Dowden, i. 345-349. The poems appear to be as 
follows : — 

Dedication : To Harriet. Printed, revised, 
as the Dedication of Queen Mab. 

Falsehood and Vice: A Dialogue. Printed 
in Shelley's notes to Queen Mab. 

On Death C The pale, the cold and the moony 
smile '). Printed, revised, with Alastor. 

The Tombs. Dowden quotes the following 
lines : — 

' Courage and charity and truth 
And high devotedness.' 

On Robert Emmefs Grave. Seven stajizas, of 
which Dowden prints vi., vii. 

The Retrospect : Cwm Elan, 1812. A poem 
contrasting the landscape as it appeared then 
with the same scene the year before, Dowden 
prints the greater portion. 

Sonnet : To Harriet, August 1, 1812. Dowden 
prints four lines. 

To Harriet. Partly printed (58-69) by Shelley, 
notes to Queen Mab ; partly (5-13) by Garnett 
from the Boscombe manuscript, and entire by 
Dowden. 

Sonnet : To a Balloon Laden with Knowledge. 
Printed by Dowden. 

Sonnet : on Launching some Bottles, filled with 
Knowledge into the Bristol Channel. Printed by 
Dowden. 



Sonnet : Farewell to North Devon. Dowden 
prints six lines. 

On Leaving London for Wales. Eight stanzas, 
of which Dowden prints four. 

A Tale of Society as it is from Facts, 1811. 
Published, except three stanzas, by Kossetti 
from the Kitchener MS. 

Marseillaise Hymn, translated. Forman prints 
the second stanza from Locker-Iiampson MS. 

Henry and Louisa. Dowden, i. 347. A nar- 
rative poem in two parts, the scene changing 
from England in the first part to Egypt in the 
second. Dowden describes the catastrophe as 
follows : ' Henry, borne from his lover's arms 
by the insane lust of conquest and of glory, is 
pursued by Louisa, who finds him dying on the 
bloody sands, and, like Shakespeare's Juliet, is 
swift to pursue her beloved through the portals 
of the grave,' Shelley notes on this poem : 
' The stanza of this poem is radically that of 
Spenser, although I suffered myself at the time 
of writing it to be led into occasional devia- 
tions.' 

Zeinab and Kathema. A tragedy in six-line 
stanzas, possibly suggested by Miss Owenson's 
novel. The Missionary. Dowden, i. 347-368, de- 
scribes as follows : ' From this may have come 
the suggestion to choose as the heroine of his 
poem the maiden of Cashmire, borne away from 
her native home by Christian guile and rapine. 
Kathema follows his betrothed Zeinab to Eng- 
land. 

" Meanwhile through calm and storm, through night and 
day, 
Unvarying in her aim the vessel went, 
As if some inward spirit ruled her way, 

And her tense sails were conscious of intent, 
Till Albion's cliffs gleamed o'er her plunging bow, 
And Albion's river floods bright sparkled round her 
prow," 

But Zeinab had been flung to perish upon the 
streets by her betrayers, had risen in crime 
against those who caused her ruin, and had suf- 
fered death by the vengeance of indiscriminat- 
ing and pitiless laws. It is a bitter December 
evening when Kathema, weary with vain search 
for his beloved, sinks wearily upon the heath. 
At the moment of his awaking, the winter 
moonbeams fall upon a dead and naked female 
form, swinging in chains from a gibbet, while 
her dark hair tosses in the wind, and ravenous 
birds of prey cry in the ear of night. The lover 
recognizes his Zeinab and is seized with mad- 
ness ; he scales the gibbet, and, twining the 
chains about his neck, leaps forward " to meet 
the life to come," Here is romantic ghastliness, 
as imagined by a boy, in extravagant profusion ; 
but at heart, each of the two poems is designed 
less as a piece of romantic art than as an indict- 
ment of widespread evils — the one, a setting 
forth of the criminal love of glory and conquest ; 
the other, a setting forth of the cruelty of sen- 
sual passion and the injustice of formerly ad- 
ministered laws.' 

The Voyage. Dowden, i, 284: 'A fragment 
of some three hundred lines ... It tells, in the 
irregular unrhyraed verse which Shelley adopted 



592 



VICTOR AND CAZIRE 



from Thalaha and employed in Queen Mab, of a 
ship returning across the summer sea from her 
voyage ; and of her company of voyagers, with 
their various passions and imaginings — two 
ardent youths who have braved all dangers 
side by side ; the landsman mean and crafty, 
who bears across the stainless ocean all the base 
thoughts and selfish greeds of the city ; the 
sailor returning to his cottage home and wife 
and babes, but seized at the moment of his 
dearest hope by minions of the press-gang and 
hurried away reluctant.' 

A Retrospect of Times of Old. Dowden, i. 
285 : ' A rhymed piece having much in common 
with those earlier pages of Queen Mab, which 
picture the fall of empires, and celebrate the 
oblivion that has overtaken the old rulers of 
men and lords of the earth.' 

Soliloquy of the Wandering Jew. Printed by 
DobeU. 

Dowden, i. 348, further describes the contents ; 
— ' The collection . , . opens with a series of 
poems in unrhymed stanzas, the use of which 
ohelley had learned from Southey's early vol- 
umes. Such lines as those to Liberty : — 

" And the spirits of the brave 
Shall start from every grave, 
Whilst from her Atlantic throne 
Freedom sanctifies the groan 
That fans the glorious fires of its change — *' 

are a direct reminiscence,' etc. 

Of other poems unentitled, Dowden prints the 
following fragments : — 

I 

' Consigned to thoughts of holiness 
And deeds of living love.' 

II 

' Then may we hope the consummating hour, 
Dreadfully, swiftly, sweetly is arriving, 
When light from darkness, peace from desolation, 
Bursts unresisted.' 

Dowden, i. 346 : ' Having copied his best 
short pieces, Shelley falls back on [four of] the 
Oxford poems suggested by the story of Hogg's 
friend Mary and on the pieces written in the 
winter of 1810, 1811, which are strikingly inferior 
both in form and feeling to the poems of a later 
date.' 

Dowden, Shelley'' s Poems, p. 695 : ' Mr. Es- 
daile's MS. contains three poems, To Mary, 
with an advertisement prefixed, and one To the 
Lover of Mary. The date of these is November, 
1810. They are selected, Shelley says, from 
many written during three weeks of an en- 
trancement caused on hearing Mary's story.' 
[See note on To Mary, who died in this Opinion.] 

Dowden, i. 107 : ' The piteous story of a cer- 
tain Mary — a real person, — known in her dis- 
tress to Hogg, had been related by his friend to 
Shelley ; it had thrown him into a three weeks' 
"entrancement," and formed the occasion of a 
series of poems, rapidly produced.' 

February 28, 1805. To St. Irvyne. Dowden, 
i. 48: 'I have seen an unpublished poem — six 
stanzas — of Shelley's, in Harriet Shelley's 



handwriting, headed "February 28, 1805. To 
St. Irvyne " — St. Irvyne the name of a place 
where the writer often sat on " the mouldering 
height " with " his Harriet " — and having the 
words " To H. Grove " subscribed, also in Har- 
riet Shelley's handwriting. The poem can 
hardly have been written in 1805, but the title 
may refer to some incident of February in that 
year, which might be viewed as a starting-point 
in the course of their love. A reference in this 
poem to Strood, the property of John Com- 
merell, Esq., hard by Field Place, leads one to 
suppose that "St. Irvyne" may have been 
formed from the name of the proprietor of Hills 
Place, also close to Field Place, — Lady Irvine.' 
The poems, otherwise undefined, which are 
mentioned by Dowden as existing in MS., pre- 
sumably the Esdaile, are, A Dialogue, 1809 ; To 
the Moonbeam, 1809; The Solitary, 1810; To 
Death, 1810 (twenty unpublished lines) ; Love''s 
Rose, 1810 ; Eyes, 1810 (four unpublished eight- 
line stanzas) ; On an Icicle that Clung to the 
Grass of a Grave, 1809; To the Republicans of 
North America (one unpublished stanza), 1812 ; 
To lanthe, 1813. These have all been published, 
except as here noted, and further information 
regarding them will be found under their titles 
in the Notes or Juvenilia. 

All the poems printed by Dowden from these 
sources, except such fragments as are quoted 
above, are placed in this edition under Juve- 
nilia. 

Ballad. Young Parson Richards; twenty- 
one four-line stanzas, except the first, which 
has five lines, in the Harvard MS. 

To Constantia Singing, an early draft, in 
which the first stanza of the poem as now 
printed stands last. Not further described. 

A poem sent to Peacock from Italy, 

1818, in a rough state, and relating to Words- 
worth. Not further described. 

ORIGINAL POETRY BY VICTOR 
AND CAZIRE 

sm. 8vo, pp. 64 

A copy of this volume, previously known only 
by title, some contemporary notices and the 
account of it in Stock dale's Budget, was found 
by the grandson of Charles Henry Grove, the 
brother of Harriet Grove, Shelley's cousin, 
among the family books, and was reprinted 
vmder the editorship of Dr. Garnett, London, 
1898. The book was printed, in 1810, at Worth- 
ing, apparently in an edition of 1500 copies, and 
taken up by Stockdale, at Shelley's request, 
September 17, of that year. It was noticed by 
the Poetical Register, 1810-11, and the British 
Critic, April, 1811. It was written by Shelley 
(Victor) and his sister Elizabeth (Cazire), and 
contains seventeen pieces, of which Dr. Garnett 
ascribes two certainly and one other probably to 
Elizabeth, ten certainly and two others (if not 
plagiarisms) to Shelley, and he leaves two un- 
assigned. The last poem was reprinted as Vic- 
toria in St. Irvyne. He classifies the contents 



VICTOR AND CAZIRE 



593 



as follows : '1. Familiar poems in the style of 
Anstey's "Bath Guide," the first two in the 
volume, already mentioned as by Elizabeth 
Shelley. 2. A cycle of little poems evidently 
addressed by Shelley to Harriet Grove in the 
summer of 1810 (Nos. 3-7, 12, 13). 3. Tales of 
terror and wonder in the style of Monk Lewis 
(Nos. 14-17). 4. A few miscellaneous pieces 
(Nos. 8-11).' Stockdale states that he recog- 
nized one of the pieces as by Monk Lewis, and 
that on his communicating the fact to Shelley 
the latter ' with all the ardor natural to his 
character expressed the warmest resentment at 
the imposition practised upon him by his coad- 
jutor, and entreated me to destroy all the copies, 
of which about one hundred had been put in 



circulation.' Dr. Garnett is unable to identify 
any poem as by Monk Lewis, and suggests that 
the plagiarized poem may be a song on Laura 
(No. 11). Ghasta (No. 16) is the poem men- 
tioned by Medwin as containing a plagiarism 
from Chatterton. Of the value of the volume 
as a whole. Dr. Garnett says : ' It shows, at 
all events, that the youthful Shelley could write 
better verse than can be found in his novels, 
and that he even then possessed the feeling for 
melody that is rarely dissociated from more or 
less of endowment with the poetical faculty. 
Biographically, it contributes something to illus- 
trate an obscure period of his life, and strength- 
ens the belief that his attachment for his fair 
cousin was more than a passing fancy.' 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



Page 1. Queen Mab. 

The unusual metrical form in which the poem 
is cast is described by Shelley in a letter to 
Hogg, February 7, 1813 : ' I have not been able 
to bring myself to rhyme. The didactic is in 
blank heroic verse, and the description in blank 
lyrical measure. If an authority is of any 
weight in support of this singularity, Milton's 
Samson Agotiistes, the Greek choruses, and (you 
will laugh) Southey's Thalaha may be adduced.' 
The model of the lyrical portion is, in fact, Tha- 
laba, the cadences of which are closely repro- 
duced in general. The motive of the poem, as 
is shown by the motto prefixed, is Lucretian ; 
IShelley imagined that in attacking religion he 
was performing a service to humanity similar 
to that of the Latin poet in attacking supersti- 
tion, and also that in his philosophy of nature 
and necessity he was following in the footsteps 
of the most illustrious poet who has embodied 
scientific conceptions in verse. The form of 
the tale he took from Volney, Les Ruines. 
The sources of his thought, both with respect 
to his view of the system of nature and to his 
reflections on human institutions and their 
operation on society, are developed with suffi- 
cient fulness in his own Notes, which have 
attracted perhaps more attention than the 
poem they illustrate. These, with a few excep- 
tions noted in the place of omission, are given 
below, the text being revised so as not to repro- 
duce obvious errors ; Shelley's references and 
extracts, except when he may have meant to 
paraphrase, have also been corrected ; that is 
to say, the original editions which he himself 
probably used have been consulted, and the 
passages printed as they there occur literally ; 
thus in the extracts from the Systeme de la 
Nature par M. Mirabaud, for example, there 
are many errors, but the text that Shelley had 
before him has been faithfully transcribed, in 
all cases. Much of these Notes had been pre- 
viously published by Shelley. The note, 
' There is no God,' embodies Shelley's Oxford 
tract, The Necessity of Atheism, published at 
Worthing in 1811 ; the note, ' I will beget a 
Son,' embodies portions of the Letter to Lord 
Ellenhorough, printed at Barnstable, 1812, and 
the note, ' No longer now he slays,' etc., was 
published slightly revised as A Vindication of 
Natural Diet, London, 1813. The fragment of 
Ahasuerus, referred to in the note, ' Ahasuerus, 
rise,' was picked up by Med win (Life, i. 57), 
and is a modified translation of Schubart s 



Der Ewige Jude, which appeared in The Gei 
man Museum, vol. iii, 1802. 

Shelley's Notes to Queen Mab. 

I. 242, 243 : — 

The sun's unclouded orb 

Rolled through the black concave. 

Beyond our atmosphere the sun would ap- 
pear a rayless orb of fire in the midst of a black 
concave. The equal diffusion of its light on 
earth is owing to the refraction of the rays by 
the atmosphere and their reflection from other 
bodies. Light consists either of vibrations pro- 
pagated through a subtle medium or of numer- 
ous minute particles repelled in all directions 
from the luminous body. Its velocity greatly 
exceeds that of any substance with which we 
are acquainted. Observations on the eclipses 
of Jupiter's satellites have demonstrated that 
light takes up no more than 8' 7" in passing 
from the sun to the earth, a distance of 95,000,- 
000 miles. Some idea may be gained of the im- 
mense distance of the fixed stars when it is 
computed that many years would elapse before 
light could reach this earth from the nearest of 
them ; yet in one year light travels 5,422,400,- 
000,000 miles, which is a distance 5,707,600 
times greater than that of the sun from the 
earth. 

I. 252, 253 : — 

Whilst round the chariot's way 
Innumerable systems rolled. 

The plurality of worlds — the indefinite im- 
mensity of the Universe — is a most awful sub- 
ject of contemplation. He who riglitly feels its 
mystery and grandeur is in no danger of seduc- 
tion from the falsehoods of religious sj'stems, 
or of deifying the principle of the universe. It 
is impossible to believe that the Spirit that per- 
vades this infinite machine begat a son upon 
the body of a Jewish woman ; or is angered at 
the consequences of that necessity which is a 
synonym of itself. All that miserable tale of 
the Devil and Eve and an Intercessor, with the 
childish miammeries of the God of the Jews, is 
irreconcilable with the knowledge of the stars. 
The works of his fingers have borne witness 
against him. 

The nearest of the fixed stars is inconceivably 
distant from the earth, and they are probably 
proportionably distant from each other. By a 
calculation of the velocity of light Sirius is sup- 
posed to be at least 54,224,000,000,000 miles 



SHELLEY'S NOTES TO QUEEN MAB 



595 



from the earth. ^ That which appears only like 
a thin and silvery cloud streaking the heaven is 
in efEect composed of innumerable clusters of 
suns, each shining with its own light and illumi- 
nating numbers of planets that revolve around 
them. Millions and millions of suns are ranged 
aroiuid us, all attended by innumerable worlds, 
yet calm, regular and harmonious, all keeping 
the paths of immutable necessity. 
IV. 178, 179: — 

These are the hired bravos who defend 
The tyrant's throue. 

To employ murder as a means of justice is an 
idea which a man of an enlightened mind will 
not dwell upon with pleasure. To march forth 
in rank and file, and all the pomp of streamers 
and trumpets, for the purpose of shooting at 
our fellowmen as a mark ; to inflict upon them 
all the variety of wound and anguish ; to leave 
them weltering in their blood ; to wander over 
the field of desolation, and count the number 
of the dying and the dead, — are employments 
which in thesis we may maintain to be neces- 
sary, but which no good man will contemplate 
with gratulation and delight. A battle we sup- 
pose is won : — thus truth is established, thus 
the cause of justice is confirmed ! It surely re- 
quires no common sagacity to discern the con- 
nection between this immense heap of calamities 
and the assertion of truth or the maintenance 
of justice. 

' Kings and ministers of state, the real au- 
thors of the calamity, sit unmolested in their 
cabinet, while those against whom the fury of 
the storm is directed are, for the most part, 
persons who have been trepanned into the ser- 
vice, or who are dragged unwillingly from their 
peaceful homes into the field of battle. A sol- 
dier is a man whose business it is to kill those 
who never offended him, and who are the inno- 
cent martyrs of other men's iniquities. What- 
ever may become of the abstract question of 
the justifiableness of war, it seems impossible 
that the soldier should not be a depraved and 
unnatural being. 

' To these more serious and momentous con- 
siderations it may be proper to add a recol- 
lection of the ridiculousness of the military 
character. Its first constituent is obedience : a 
soldier is, of all descriptions of men, the most 
completely a machine ; yet his profession in- 
evitably teaches him something of dogmatism, 
swaggering and self-consequence ; he is like the 
puppet of a showman, who, at the very time he 
is made to strut and swell and display the most 
farcical airs, we perfectly know cannot assume 
the most insignificant gesture, advance either to 
the right or the left, but as he is moved by his 
exhibitor.' — Godwin's Enquirer, Essay V. 

I will here subjoin a little poem, so strongly 
expressive of my abhorrence of despotism and 
falsehood that I fear lest it never again may be 
depictured so vividly. This opportunity is per- 
haps the only one that ever will occur of res- 
cuing it from oblivion. 

* See Nicholson's Encyclopedia, art. ' Light.' 



FALSEHOOD AND VICE 

A DIALOGUE 

Wnn-ST monarchs laughed upon their thrones 
To hear a famished nation's groans, 
And hugged the wealth wrung from the woe 
That makes its eyes and veins o'erflow, — 
Those thrones, high built upon the heaps 
Of bones where frenzied Famine sleeps, 
Where Slavery wields her scourge of iron, 
Red with mankind's unheeded gore, 
And War's mad fiends the scene environ, 
Mingling with shrieks a drunken roar, — 
There Vice and Falsehood took their stand, 
High raised above the unhappy land. 

FALSEHOOD 

Brother ! arise from the dainty fare, 

Which thousands have toiled and bled to bestow 

A fuier feast for thy hungry ear 

Is the news that I bring of human woe. 



And, secret one, what hast thou done. 
To compare, in thy tumid pride, with me? 
I, whose career through the blasted year 
Has been tracked by despair and agony. 

FALSEHOOD 

What have I done ! — I have torn the robe 

From baby Truth's unsheltered form, 

And round the desolated globe 

Borne safely the bewildering charm ; 

My tyrant-slaves to a dungeon-floor 

Have bound the fearless innocent, 

And streams of fertilizing gore 

Flow from her bosom's hideous rent. 

Which this imfailing dagger gave — 

I dread that blood ! — no more — this day 

Is ours, though her eternal ray 

Must shine upon om grave. 
Yet know, proud Vice, had I not given 
To thee the robe I stole from heaven, 
Thy shape of ugliness and fear 
Had never gained admission here. 



And know that had I disdained to toil. 
But sate in my loathsome cave the while, 
And ne'er to these hateful sons of heaven, 
GOLD, MONARCHY and MURDER, given ; 
Hadst thou with all thine art essayed 
One of thy games then to have played, 
With all thine overweening boast, 
Falsehood ! I tell thee thou hadst lost ! — 
Yet wherefore this dispute ? — we tend. 
Fraternal, to one common end ; 
In this cold grave beneath my feet 
Will our hopes, our fears and our labors meet. 

FALSEHOOD 

I brought my daughter, RELIGION, on earth 
She smothered Reason's babes in their birth, 
But dreaded their mother's eye severe, — 
So the crocodile slimk off slyly in fear, 
And loosed her bloodhounds from the den. 
They started from dreams of slaughtered men 
And, by the light of her poison eye, 
Did her work o'er the wide earth frightfully^ 
The dreadful stench of her torches' flare. 
Fed with human fat, polluted the air. 
The curses, the shrieks, the ceaseleaa cries 
01 the many-mingling miseries, 



596 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



As on she trod, ascended high 
And trumpeted my victory ! — 
Brother, tell what thou hast done. 



I have extinguished the noonday sun 

In the carnage-smoke of battles won. 

Famine, murder, hell and power 

Were glutted in that glorious hour 

Which searchless fate had stamped for me 

With the seal of her security ; 

For the bloated wretch on yonder throne 

Commanded the bloody fray to rise ; 

Like me he joyed at the stifled moan 

Wrung from a nation's miseries ; 

While the snakes, whose slime even him defiled. 

In ecstasies of malice smiled. 

They thought 't was theirs, — but mme the deed ! 

Theirs is the toil, but mine the meed — 

Ten thousand victims madly bleed. 

They dream that tyrants goad them there 

With poisonous war to taint the air. 

These tyrants, on their beds of thorn. 

Swell with the thoughts of murderous fame, 

And with their gains to lift my name 

Restless they plan from night to morn ; 

I — I do all ; without my aid 

Thy daughter, that relentless maid, 

Could never o'er a death-bed urge 

The fury of her venomed scourge. 

FALSEHOOD 

Brother, well : — the world is ours ; 

And whether thou or I have won, 

The pestilence expectant lours 

On all beneath yon blasted sun. 

Our joys, our toils, our honors meet 

In the milk-white and wormy winding-sheet. 

A short-lived hope, unceasing care, 

Some heartless scraps of godly prayer, 

A moody curse, and a frenzied sleep 

Ere gapes the grave's unclosing deep, 

A tyrant's dream, a coward's start, 

The ice that clings to a priestly heart, 

A judge's frown, a courtier's smile, 

Make the great whole for which we toil. 

And, brother, whether thou or I 

Have done the work of misery, 

It little boots. Thy toil and pain, 

Without my aid, were more than vain ; 

And but for thee I ne'er had sate 

The guardian of heaven's palace gate. 



V. 1,2:- 

Thus do the generations of the earth 

Go to the grave and issue from the womb. 

'One generation passeth away, and another 
generation cometh : but the earth abideth for 
ever. The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth 
down, and hasteth to his place where he arose. 
The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth 
about unto the north ; it whirleth about con- 
tinually, and the wind returneth again according 
to his circuits. All the rivers run into the sea ; 
yet the sea is not full ; unto the place from 
whence the rivers come, thither they return 
again.' 

EcclesiasteSy i. 4-7. 
V. 4-6: — 

Even as the leaves 
Which the keen frost-wind of the waning year 
Has scattered on the forest soil. 



O'tij Trep <f)v\\u)v yeverj, roi^Se Kai av^pdv. 

TrjAe^oojcra <^uei, e'apos 5' eTriytVeTat oJpij" 
"fi? av^pCiv yei/erj i] fiev ^vei rj 6' aTToA^yet. 

lAIAA. Z'. 146. 
V-. 58:- 
The mob of peasants, nobles, priests and kings. 

Suave, mari magno turbantibus fequora ventis, 
E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem ; 
Non quia vexari quemquam 'st jucunda voluptas, 
Sed quibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suave est. 
Suave etiam belli certamina magna tueri 
Per campos instructa tua sine parte pericli. 
Sed nil dulcius est, bene quam munita tenere 
Edita doctrina sapieptum templa serena, 
Despicere unde queas alios passimque videre 
Errare atque viam palantis quaerere vitae, 
Certare ingenio, contendere nobilitate, 
Noctes atque dies niti praestante labore 
Ad summas emergere opes rerumque potiri. 
O miseras homiuum mentes ! O pectora coeca ! 

Lucretius, ii. 1-14. 
V. 93,94: — 

And statesmen boast 
Of wealth ! 

There is no real wealth but the labor of man. 
Were the mountains of gold and the valleys of 
silver, the world would not be one grain of corn 
the richer ; no one comfort would be added to 
the human race. In consequence of our con- 
sideration for the precious metals one man is 
enabled to heap to himself luxuries at the ex- 
pense of the necessaries of his neighbor ; a sys- 
tem admirably fitted to produce all the varieties 
of disease and crime which never fail to charac- 
terize the two extremes of opulence and penury. 
A speculator takes pride to himself, as the pro- 
moter of his country's prosperity, who employs 
a number of hands in the manufacture of arti- 
cles avowedly destitute of use or subservient 
only to the unhallowed cravings of luxury and 
ostentation. The nobleman who employs the 
peasants of his neighborhood in building his 
palaces, until ''jam pauca aratro jugera regice 
moles relinquent,'' flatters himself that he has 
gained the title of a patriot by yielding to the 
impulses of vanity. The show and pomp of 
courts adduce the same apology for its continu- 
ance ; and many a fete has been given, many a 
woman has eclipsed her beauty by her dress, to 
benefit the laboring poor and to encourage 
trade. Who does not see that this is a remedy 
which aggravates whilst it palliates the count- 
less diseases of society ? The poor are set to 
labor, — for what ? Not the food for which 
they famish ; not the blankets for want of 
which their babes are frozen by the cold of 
their miserable hovels ; not those comforts of 
civilization without which civilized man is far 
more miserable than the meanest savage, op- 
pressed as he is by all its insidious evils, within 
the daily and taunting prospect of its innumer- 
able benefits assiduously exhibited before him : 
— no ; for the pride of power, for the miserable 
isolation of pride, for the false pleasures of the 
hundredth part of society. No greater evi- 
dence is afforded of the wide extended and 
radical mistakes of civilized man than thi? 



SHELLEY'S NOTES TO QUEEN MAB 



597 



fact : those arts which are essential to his very- 
being are held in the greatest contempt ; em- 
ployments are lucrative in an inverse ratio to 
their usefulness ; i the jeweller, the toyman, 
the actor gains fame and wealth by the exercise 
of his useless and ridiculous art ; whilst the cul- 
tivator of the earth, he without whoin society 
must cease to subsist, struggles through con- 
tempt and penury, and perishes by that famine 
which, but for his unceasing exertions, would 
annihilate the rest of mankind. 

I will not insult common sense by insisting on 
the doctrine of the natural equality of man. 
The question is not concerning its desirableness, 
but its practicability ; so far as it is practicable, 
it is desirable. That state of human society 
which approaches nearer to an equal partition 
of its benefits and evils should, cceteris paribus, 
be preferred ; but so long as we conceive that a 
wanton expenditure of human labor, not for the 
necessities, not even for the luxuries of the mass 
of society, but for the egotism and ostentation 
of a few of its members, is defensible on the 
ground of public justice, so long we neglect 
to approximate to the redemption of the hu- 
man race. 

Labor is required for physical, and leisure 
for moral improvement ; from the former of 
these advantages the rich, and from the latter 
the poor, by the inevitable conditions of their 
respective situations, are precluded. A state 
which should combine the advantages of both 
would be subjected to the evils of neither. He 
that is deficient in firm health or vigorous in- 
tellect is but half a man. Hence it follows that 
to subject the laboring classes to unnecessary 
labor is wantonly depriving them of any oppor- 
tunities of intellectual improvement ; and that 
the rich are heaping up for their own mischief 
the disease, lassitude and ennui by which their 
existence is rendered an intolerable burden. 

English reformers exclaim against sinecures, 
but the true pension list is the rent-roll of the 
landed proprietors. Wealth is a power usurped 
by the few, to compel the many to labor for 
their benefit. The laws which support this 
system derive their force from the ignorance and 
credulity of its victims ; they are the result of 
a conspiracy of the few against the many who 
are themselves obliged to purchase this pre- 
eminence by the loss of all real comfort. 



' The commodities that substantially contrib- 
ute to the subsistence of the human species 
form a very short catalogue ; they demand from 
us but a slender portion of industry. If these 
only were produced, and sufficiently produced, 
the species of man would be continued. If the 
labor necessarily required to produce them were 
equitably divided among the poor, and, still 
more, if it were equitably divided among all, 
each man's share of labor would be liglit, and 
his portion of leisure would be ample. There 
was a time when this leisure woiild have been 

1 See Rousseau, De Vlnegalite parmi les Hommes, 
aote 7. 



of small comparative value : it is to be hoped 
that the time will come when it will be applied 
to the most important purposes. Those hours 
which are not required for the production of 
the necessaries of life may be devoted to the 
cultivation of the understanding, the enlarging 
our stock of knowledge, the refining our taste, 
and thus opening to us new and more exquisite 
sources of enjoyment. 

' It was perhaps necessary that a period of 
monopoly and oppression shoiild subsist before 
a period of cultivated equality could subsist. 
Savages perhaps would never have been excited 
to the discovery of truth and the invention of 
art but by the narrow motives which such a 
period affords. But surely, after the savage 
state has ceased and men have set out in the 
glorious career of discovery and invention, 
monopoly and oppression cannot be necessary 
to prevent them from returning to a state of 
barbarism.' — Godwin's Enquirer, Essay II. 
See also Political Justice, book VIII., chap. ii. 

It is a calculation of this admirable author 
that all the conveniences of civilized life might 
be produced, if society would divide the labor 
equally among its members, by each individual 
being employed in labor two hours during the 
day. 

V. 112, 113 : — 

or religion 
Drives his wife raving mad. 

I am acquainted with a lady of considerable 
aceomplishiTients and the mother of a numerous 
family, whom the Christian religion has goaded 
to incurable insanity. A parallel case is, I be- 
lieve, within the expei'ience of every physician. 

Nam jam saepe homines patriam carosque parentis 
Prodiderunt, vitare Acherusia templa petentes. 

Lucretius, iii. 85. 

V. 189: — 

Even love is sold. 

Not even the intercourse of the sexes is ex- 
empt from the despotism of positive institution. 
Law pretends even to govern the indisciplinable 
wanderings of passion, to put fetters on the 
clearest deductions of reason, and, by appeals 
to the will, to subdue the involuntary affections 
of our nature. Love is inevitably consequent 
upon the perception of loveliness. Love withers 
under constraint ; its very essence is liberty ; it 
is compatible neither with obedience, jealousy 
nor fear ; it is there most pure, perfect and 
unlimited, where its votaries live in confidence, 
equaHty and vinreserve. 

How long then ought the sexual connection 
to last ? what law ought to specify the extent 
of the grievances which should limit its dura- 
tion ? A husband and wife ought to continue 
so long united as they love each other ; any law 
which should bind them to cohabitation for one 
moment after the decay of their affection would 
be a most intolerable tyranny and the most un- 
worthy of toleration. How odious an usurpa- 
tion of the right of private judgment should 
that law be considered which should make 



598 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



bhe ties of friemlsliip indissoluble, in spite of 
the caprices, the inconstancy, the fallibility 
and capacity for improvement of the human 
mind ! And by so much would the fetters of 
love be heavier and more unendurable than 
those of friendship as love is more vehement and 
capricious, more dependent on those delicate 
peculiarities of imagination, and less capable of 
reduction to the ostensible merits of the object. 

The state of society in which we exist is a 
mixture of feudal savageness and imperfect 
civilization. The narrow and unenlightened 
morality of the Christian religion is an aggra- 
vation of these evils. It is not even until lately 
that mankind have admitted that happiness is 
the sole end of the science of ethics as of all 
other sciences ; and that the fanatical idea of 
mortifying the flesh for the love of God has 
been discarded. I have heard, indeed, an ig- 
norant collegian adduce, in favor of Christian- 
ity, its hostility to every worldly feeling ! i 

But if happiness be the object of morality, of 
all human unions and disunions ; if the worthi- 
ness of every action is to be estimated bj'^ the 
quantity of pleasurable sensation it is calcu- 
lated to produce ; then the connection of the 
sexes is so long sacred as it contributes to the 
comfort of the parties, and is naturally dis- 
solved when its evils are greater than its bene- 
fits. There is nothing immoral in this separa- 
tion. Constancy has nothing virtuous in itself, 
independently of the pleasure it confers, and 
partakes of the temporizing spirit of vice in 
proportion as it endures tamely moral defects of 
magnitude in the object of its indiscreet choice. 
Love is free ; to promise forever to love the 
same woman is not less absurd than to pro- 
mise to believe the same creed ; such a vow, 
in both cases, excludes us from all inquiry ; 
The language of the votarist is this. ' The 
woman I now love may be infinitely inferior to 
many others ; the creed I now profess may be a 
mass of errors and absurdities ; but I exclude 
myself from all future information as to the 
amiability of the one and the truth of the other, 
resolving blindly, and in spite of conviction, to 
adhere to them.' Is this the language of deli- 
cacy and reason ? Is the love of such a frigid 
heart of more worth than its belief ? 

The present system of constraint does no 
more, in the majority of instances, than make 
hypocrites or open enemies. Persons of deli- 
cacy and virtue, unhappily united to one whom 
they find it impossible to love, spend the love- 
liest season of their life in unproductive efforts 
to appear otherwise than they are, for the sake 
of the feelings of their partner or the welfare 
of their mutual offspring ; those of less generos- 
ity and refinement openly avow their disap- 
pointment, and linger out the remnant of that 
union, which only death can dissolve, in a state 

1 The first Christian emperor made a law by which 
seduction was punished with deatli : if the female 
pleaded her own consent, she also was punished with 
death ; if the parents endeavored to screen the criminals, 
they were banished and their estates were confiscated ; 
the slaves who might be accessory were burned »live, 



of incurable bickering and hostility. The earl^ 
education of their children takes its color from 
the squabbles of the parents ; they are nursed 
in a systematic school ot ill humor, violence, 
and falsehood. Had they been suffered to part 
at the moment when indifference rendered their 
union irksome, they would have been spared 
many j'^ears of misery ; they would have con- 
nected themselves more suitably and would 
have found that happiness in the society of 
more congenial partners which is forever denied 
them by the despotism of marriage. They 
would have been separately useful and happy 
members of society, who, whilst united, were 
miserable, and rendered misanthropical by 
misery. The conviction that wedlock is indis- 
soluble holds out the strongest of all tempta- 
tions to the perverse ; they indulge without 
restraint in acrimony, and all the little tyran- 
nies of domestic life, when they know that their 
victim is without appeal. If this connection 
were put on a rational basis, each would be 
assured that habitual ill temper would termi- 
nate in separation, and would check this vicious 
and dangerous propensity. 

Prostitution is the legitimate offspring of 
marriage and its accompanying errors. Women, 
for no other crime than having followed the 
dictates of a natural appetite, are driven with 
fury from the comforts and sympathies of soci- 
ety. It is less venial than murder ; and the 
punishment which is inflicted on her who de- 
stroys her child to escape reproach is lighter than 
the life of agony and disease to which the pro- 
stitute is irrecoverably doomed. Has a woman 
obeyed the impulse of unerring Nature ? soci- 
ety declares war against her, pitiless and eter- 
nal war ; she must be the taine slave, she must 
make no reprisals ; theirs is the right of perse- 
cution, hers the duty of endurance. She lives 
a life of infamy ; the loud and bitter laugh of 
scorn scares her from all return. She dies of 
long and lingering disease ; yet she is in fault, 
she is the criminal, she the froward and untam- 
able child, — and society, forsooth, the pure 
and virtuous matron, who casts her as an abor- 
tion from her undefiled bosom ! Society avenge? 
herself on the criminals of her own creation ; 
she is employed in anathematizing the vice to- 
day which yesterday slie was the most zealous 
to teach. Thus is formed one tenth of the 
population of London. MeauAvhile the evil is 
twofold. Young men, excluded by the fanati- 
cal idea of chastity from the society of modest 
and accomplished women, associate with these 
vicious and miserable beings, destroying there- 
by all those exqviisite and delicate sensibilities 
whose existence cold-hearted worldlings have 
denied ; annihilating all genuine passion, and 
debasing that to a selfish feeling which is the 
excess of generosity and devotedness. Their 

or forced to swallow melted lead. The very offspring 
of an illegal love were involved in the consequences of 
the sentence. — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, vol. ii. p. 
210. See also, for the hatred of the primitive Chris 
tians to love and even marriage, p. 269. 



SHELLEY'S NOTES TO QUEEN MAB 



599 



body and mind alike crumble into a hideous 
wreck of humanity ; idiocy and disease become 
perpetuated in their miserable offspring, and 
distant generations suffer for the bigoted mo- 
rality of their forefathers. Chastity is a monk- 
ish and evangelical superstition, a greater foe 
to natural temperance even than unintellectual 
sensuality ; it strikes at the root of all domestic 
happiness, and consigns more than half of the 
human race to misery that some few may mono- 
polize according to law. A system could not 
well have been devised more studiously hostile 
to human happiness than marriage. 

I conceive that from the abolition of mar- 
riage the fit and natural arrangement of sexual 
connection would result. 1 by no means assert 
tliat the intercourse would be promiscuous ; on 
the contrary it appears from the relation of 
parent to child that this union is generally of 
long duration, and marked above all others 
with generosity and self-devotion. But this is 
a subject which it is perhaps premature to dis- 
cuss. That which will result from the aboli- 
tion of marriage will be natural and right, 
because choice and change will be exempted 
from restraint. 

In fact, religion and morality, as they now 
stand, compose a practical code of misery and 
servitude ; the genius of human happiness must 
tear every leaf from the accursed book of God 
ere man can read the inscription on his heart. 
How would Morality, dressed up in stiff stays 
and finery, start from her own disgusting image, 
should she look in the mirror of Nature ! 



VI. 45, 46 : — 

To the red and baleful sun 
That faintly twinkles there. 

The north polar star to which the axis of the 
earth in its present state of obliquity points. 
It is exceedingly probable from many consider- 
ations that this obliquity will gradually dimin- 
ish until the equator coincides with the ecliptic ; 
the nights and days will then become equal on 
the earth throughout the year, and probably 
the seasons also. There is no great extrava- 
gance in presuming that the progress of the 
perpendicularity of the poles may be as rapid 
as the progress of intellect ; or that there should 
be a perfect identity between the moral and 
physical improvement of the human species. 
It is certain that wisdom is not compatible with 
disease, and that, in the present state of the 
climates of the earth, health, in the true and 
comprehensive sense of the word, is out of the 
reach of civilized man. Astronomy teaches us 
that the earth is now in its progress, and that 
the poles are every year becoming more and more 
perpendicular to the ecliptic. The strong evi- 
dence afforded by the history of mythology and 
geological researches that some event of this na- 
ture has taken place already affords a strong 
presumption that this progi-ess is not merely an 
oscillation, as has been surmised by some late 
S^tronomers.i Bones of animals peculiar to 
1 Laplace, Systeme du Monde, 



the torrid zone have been found in the north oi 
Siberia and on the banks of the river Ohio. 
Plants have been found in the fossil state in the 
interior of Germany, which demand the present 
climate of Hindostan for their production. 2 
The researches of M. Bailly 3 establish the ex- 
istence of a people who inhabited a tract in 
Tartary 49° north latitude, of greater antiquity 
than either the Indians, the Chinese, or the 
Chaldeans, from whom these nations derived 
their sciences and theology. We find from the 
testimony of ancient writers that Britain, Ger- 
many, and France were much colder than at 
present, and that their great rivers were an- 
nually frozen over. Astronomy teaches us 
also that since this period the obliquity of the 
earth's position has been considerably dimin- 
ished. 

YI. 171-173: — 

No atom of this turbulence fulfils 
A vague and imnecessitated task, 
Or acts but as it must and ought to act. 

Deux exemples serviront h, nous rendre plus 
sensible le principe qui vient d'etre posd ; noua 
emprunterons I'une du physique et I'autre du 
moral. Dans un tourbillon de poussi^re qu'^l^ve 
un vent imp^tueux, quelque conf us qu'il paraisse 
h nos yeux ; dans la jdIus affreuse tempete ex- 
cit^e par des vents opposes qui soul^vent les 
flots, il n'y a pas une seule molecule de pous- 
si^re on d'eau qui soit plac^e au hazard, qui 
n'ait sa cause suffisante pour occuper le lieu ou 
elle se trouve, et qui n'agisse rigoureusement 
de la mani^re dont elle doit agir. Une g^o- 
m^tre qui connaitrait exactement les diff^ren- 
tes forces qui agissent dans ces deux cas, et les 
propri^t^s des molecules qui sont mues, demon- 
trerait que d'apr^s des causes donn^es, chaque 
molecule agit pr^cis^ment comme elle doit agir, 
et ne pent agir autrement qu'elle ne fait. 

Dans les convulsions terribles qui agitent 
quelquefois les soci^t^s politiques, et qui pro- 
duisent souvent le renversement d'un empire, U 
n'y a pas une seule action, une seule parole, unt 
seule pens^e, une seule volont^, une seule pas- 
sion dans les agens qui concourent k la revolution 
comme destructeurs ou comme victimes, qui ne 
soitn^cessaire, qui n'agisse comme elle doit agir, 
qui n'op^re infalliblement les effets qu'elle doit 
op^rer, suivant la place qu'occupent ces agens 
dans ce tourbillon moral. Cela paraitrait Evi- 
dent pour Txne intelligence qui serait en ^tat de 
saisir et d'appr^cier toutes les actions et re- 
actions des esprits et des corps de ceux qui con- 
tribuent k cette revolution. 

Systeme de la Nature, vol. i. p. 44. 

VL 198: — 

Necessity, thou mother of the world ! 

He who asserts the doctrine of Necessity 
means that, contemplating the events which 
compose the moral and material universe, he 
beholds only an immense and uninterrupted 

2 Cabanis, Rapports du Physique et dxt Moral de 
VHomme, vol. ii. p. 406. 

3 Bailly, Letires sur les Sciences, a Voltaire. 



6oo 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



chain of causes and effects, no one of whieh 
could occupy any other place than it does occupy, 
or act in any other place than it does act. The 
idea of Necessity is obtained by our experience 
of the connection between objects, the uniform- 
ity of the operations of Nature, the constant 
conjunction of similar events, and the conse- 
quent inference of one from the other. Man- 
kind are therefore agreed in the admission of 
Necessity if they admit that these two circum- 
stances take place in voluntary action. Motive 
is to voluntary action in the human mind what 
cause is to effect in the material universe. The 
word liberty, as applied to mind, is analogous to 
the word chance as applied to matter ; they 
spring from an ignorance of the certainty of the 
conjunction of antecedents and consequents. 

Every human being is irresistibly impelled to 
act precisely as he does act ; in the eternity 
which preceded his birth a chain of causes was 
generated, which, operating under the name of 
motives, make it impossible that any thought 
of his mind or any action of his life should be 
otherwise than it is. Were the doctrine of 
Necessity false, the human mind would no 
longer be a legitimate object of science ; from 
like causes it would be in vain that we should 
expect like effects ; the strongest motive would 
no longer be paramount over the conduct ; all 
knowledge would be vague and undeterrainate ; 
we could not predict with any certainty that we 
might not meet as an enemy to-morrow him 
with whom we have parted in friendship to- 
night ; the most probable inducements and the 
clearest reasonings would lose the invariable 
influence they possess. The contrary of this is 
demonstrably the fact. Similar circumstances 
produce the same unvariable effects. The pre- 
cise character and motives of any man on any 
occasion being given, the moral philosopher 
could predict his actions with as much certainty 
as the natural philosopher could predict the 
effects of the mixture of any particular chemi- 
cal substances. Why is the aged husbandman 
more experienced than the young beginner? 
Because there is a uniform, undeniable Neces- 
sity in the operations of the material universe. 
Why is the old statesman more skilful than the 
raw politician ? Because relying on the neces- 
sary conjunction of motive and action, he pro- 
ceeds to produce moral effects by the application 
of those moral causes which experience has 
shown to be effectual. Some actions may be 
found to which we can attach no motives, but 
these are the effects of causes with which we are 
unacquainted. Hence the relation which motive 
bears to voluntary action is that of cause to 
effect ; nor, placed in this point of view, is it, 
or ever has it been, the subject of popular 
or philosophical dispute. None but the few 
fanatics who are engaged in the herculean task 
of reconciling the justice of their God with the 
misery of man will longer outrage common sense 
by the supposition of an event without a cause, 
a voluntary action without a motive. History, 
politics, morals, criticisms, all grounds of rea- 
■onings, all principles of science, alike assume 



the truth of the doctrine of Necessity. No 
farmer carrying his corn to market doubts the 
sale of it at the market price. The^master of a 
manufactory no more doubts that ne can pur- 
chase .the human labor necessary for his pur- 
poses than that his machinery will act as they 
have been accustomed to act. 

But, whilst none have scrupled to admit 
Necessity as influencing matter, many have dis- 
puted its dominion over mind. Independently 
of its militating with the received ideas of the 
justice of God, it is by no means obvious to a 
superficial inquiry. When the mind observes its 
own operations, it feels no connection of motive 
and action ; but as we know ' nothing more of 
causation than the constant conjunction of ob- 
jects and the consequent inference of one from 
the other, as we find that these two circum- 
stances are universally allowed to have place in 
voluntary action, we may be easily led to own 
that they are subjected to the necessity common 
to all causes.' The actions of the will have a 
regular conjunction with circumstances and 
characters ; motive is to voluntary action what 
cause is to effect. But the only idea we can 
form of causation is a constant conjunction of 
similar objects, and the consequent inference of 
one from the other ; wherever this is the case 
Necessity is clearly established. 

The idea of liberty, applied metaphorically to 
the will, has sprung from a misconception of 
the meaning of the word power. What is 
power ? — id quod potest, that which can pro- 
duce any given effect. To deny power is to 
say that nothing can or has the power to be or 
act. In the only true sense of the word power 
it applies with equal force to the lodestone as 
to the human will. Do you think these 
motives, whieh I shall present, are powerful 
enough to rouse him ? is a question just as com- 
mon as, Do you think this lever has the power 
of raising this weight ? The advocates of free- 
will assert that the will has the power of re- 
fusing to be determined by the strongest 
motive ; but the strongest motive is that which, 
overcoming all others, ultimately prevails ; this 
assertion therefore amounts to a denial of the 
will being ultimately determined by that motive 
whieh does determine it, which is absurd. But 
it is equally certain that a man cannot resist 
the strongest motive as that he cannot overcome 
a physical impossibility. 

The doctrine of Necessity tends to introduce 
a great change into the established notions of 
morality and utterly to destroy religion. Re- 
ward and punishment must be considered by 
the Necessarian merely as motives which he 
would employ in order to procure the adoption 
or abandonment of any given line of conduct. 
Desert, in the present sense of the word, would 
no longer have any meaning ; and he who should 
inflict pain upon another for no better reason 
than that he deserved it would only gratify his 
revenge under pretence of satisfying justice. It 
is not enough, says the advocate of free-wilL 
that a criminal should be prevented from a re- 
petition of his crime ; he should feel pain, and 



SHELLEY'S NOTES TO QUEEN MAB 



6oi 



bis torments, when justly inflicted, ought pre- 
cisely to be proportioned to his fault. But 
utility is morality ; that which is incapable of 
producing happiness is useless ; and though the 
crime of Damiens must be condemned, yet 
the frightful torments which revenge, under 
the name of justice, inflicted on this unhappy 
man, cannot be supposed to have augmented, 
even at the long run, the stock of pleasurable 
sensation in the world. At the same time the 
doctrine of Necessity does not in the least 
diminish our disapprobation of vice. The con- 
viction which all feel that a viper is a poisonous 
animal, and that a tiger is constrained by the 
inevitable condition of his existence to devour 
men, does not induce us to avoid them less 
sedulously, or, even more, to hesitate in destroy- 
ing them ; but he would surely be of a hard 
heart, who, meeting with a serpent on a desert 
island or in a situation where it was incapable 
of injury, should wantonly deprive it of exist- 
ence. A Necessarian is inconsequent to his own 
principles if he indulges in hatred or contempt ; 
the compassion which he feels for the criminal 
is unmixed with a desire of injuring him ; he 
looks with an elevated and dreadless composure 
upon the links of the universal chain as they 
pass before his eyes ; whilst cowardice, curios- 
ity and inconsistency only assail him in propor- 
tion to the feebleness and indistinctness with 
which he has perceived and rejected the delu- 
sions of free-will. 

Religion is the perception of the relation in 
which we stand to the principle of the universe. 
But if the principle of the universe be not an 
organic being, the model and prototype of man, 
the relation between it and human beings is 
absolutely none. Without some insight into its 
will respecting our actions religion is nugatory 
and vain. But will is only a mode of animal 
mind ; moral qualities also are such as only a 
human being can possess ; to attribute them to 
the principle of the universe is to annex to it 
properties incompatible with any possible defi- 
nition of its nature. It is probable that the 
word God was originally only an expression 
denoting the unknown cause of the known 
events which men perceived in the universe. 
By the vulgar mistake of a metaphor for a 
real being, of a word for a thing, it became a 
man endowed with human qualities and gov- 
erning the universe as an earthly monarch 
governs his kingdom. Their addresses to this 
imaginary being, indeed, are much in the same 
style as those of subjects to a king. They 
acknowledge his benevolence, deprecate his 
anger and supplicate his favor. 

But the doctrine of Necessity teaches us that 
in no case could any event have happened other- 
wise than it did happen, and that, if God is the 
author of good, he is also the author of evil ; 
that, if he is entitled to our gratitude for the 
one, he is entitled to our hatred for the other ; 
that, admitting the existence of this hypothetic 
being, he is also subjected to the dominion of an 
immutable Necessity. It is plain that the same 
arguments which prove that God is the author 



of food, light and life, prove him also to be the 
author of poison, darkness and death. The 
wide-wasting earthquake, the storm, the battle 
and the tyranny are attributable to this hypo- 
thetic being in the same degree as the fairest 
forms of Nature, sunshine, liberty and peace. 

But we are taught by the doctrine of Neces- 
sity that there is neither good nor evil in the 
universe otherwise than as the events to which 
we apply these epithets have relation to our 
own peculiar mode of being. Still less than 
with the hypothesis of a God will the doctrine 
of Necessity accord with the belief of a future 
state of punishment. God made man such as 
he is and then damned him for being so ; for to 
say that God was the author of all good, and 
man the author of all evil, is to say that one 
man made a straight line and a crooked one, 
and another man made the incongruity. 

A Mahometan story, much to the present 
purpose, is recorded, wherein Adam and Moses 
are introduced disputing before God in the fol- 
lowing manner. ' Thou,' says Moses, ' art 
Adam, whom God created and animated with 
the breath of life and caused to be worshipped 
by the angels, and placed in Paradise, from 
whence mankind have been expelled for thy 
fault.' Whereto Adam answered, 'Thou art 
Moses, whom God chose for his apostle and en- 
trusted with his word by giving thee the tables 
of the law and whom he vouchsafed to admit 
to discourse with himself. How many years' 
dost thou find the law was written before I was 
created ? ' Says Moses, ' Forty,' ' And dost 
thou not find,' replied Adam, ' these words 
therein, — "And Adam rebelled against his 
Lord and transgressed " ? ' Which Moses con- 
fessing, ' Dost thou therefore blame me,' con- 
tinued he, ' for doing that which God wrote of 
me that I should do, forty years before I was 
created, nay, for what was decreed concerning 
me fifty thousand years before the creation of 
heaven and earth ?' — Sale's Preliminary Dis- 
course to the Koran, p, 164. 

VII. 13 : ~ 

There is no God ! 

This negation must be understood solely to 
affect a creative Deity. The hypothesis of a 
pervading Spirit, coeternal with the universe, 
remains unshaken. 

A close examination of the validity of the 
proofs adduced to suppport any proposition is 
the only secure way of attaining truth, on the 
advantages of which it is unnecessary to des- 
cant ; our knowledge of the existence of a 
Diety is a subject of such importance that it 
cannot be too minutely investigated ; in conse- 
quence of this conviction we proceed briefly and 
impartially to examine the proofs which have 
been adduced. It is necessary first to consider 
the nature of belief. 

When a proposition is offered to the mind, it 
perceives the agreement or disagreement of the 
ideas of which it is composed, A perception 
of their agreement is termed belief.^ Many 
obstacles frequently prevent this perception from 



6o2 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



being immediate ; these the mind attempts to 
remove in order that the perception may be dis- 
tinct. The mind is active in the investigation 
in order to perfect the state of perception of the 
relation which the component ideas of tlie pro- 
position bear to each, which is passive ; the in- 
vestigation being confused with the perception 
has induced many falsely to imagine that the 
mind is active in belief, — that belief is an act 
of volition, — in consequence of which it may 
be regulated by the mind. Pursuing, continu- 
ing this mistake, they have attached a degree 
of criminality to disbelief, of which in its 
nature it is incapable ; it is equally incapable 
of merit. 

Belief, then, is a passion, the strength of 
which, like every other passion, is in precise 
proportion to the degrees of excitement. 

The degrees of excitement are three. 

The senses are the sources of all knowledge 
to the mind ; consequently their evidence claims 
the strongest assent. 

The decision of the mind, founded upon our 
own experience, derived from these sources, 
claims the next degree. 

The experience of others, which addresses 
itself to the former one, occupies the lowest 
degree. 

(A graduated scale, on which should be 
marked the capabilities of propositions to ap- 
proach to the test of the senses, would be a just 
barometer of the belief which ought to be at- 
tached to them.) 

Consequently no testimony can be admitted 
which is contrary to reason ; reason is founded 
on the evidence of our senses. 

Every proof may be referred to one of these 
three divisions. It is to be considered what ar- 
guments we receive from each of them, which 
should convince us of the existence of a Deity. 

1st. The evidence of the senses. If the Deity 
should appear to us, if he should convince our 
senses of his existence, this revelation would 
necessarily command belief. Those to whom 
the Deity has thus appeared have the strongest 
possible conviction of his existence. But the 
God of theologians is incapable of local visi- 
bility. 

2nd. Reason. It is urged that man knows 
that whatever is must either have had a begin- 
ning, or have existed from all eternity ; he also 
knows that whatever is not eternal must have 
had a cause. When this reasoning is applied to 
the universe, it is necessary to prove that it was 
created ; until that is clearly demonstrated, we 
may reasonably suppose that it has endured 
from all eternity. We must prove design be- 
fore we can infer a designer. The only idea 
which we can form of causation is derivable 
from the constant conjunction of objects, and 
the consequent inference of one from the other. 
In a case where two propositions are diametri- 
cally opposite, the mind believes that which is 
least incomprehensible : it is easier to suppose 
that the universe has existed from all eternity 
than to conceive a being beyond its limits ca- 
pable of creating it ; if the mind sinks beneath 



the weight of one, is it an alleviation to increage 
the intolerability of the burden ? 

The other argument, which is founded on a 
man's knowledge of his own existence, stands 
thus. A man knows not only that he now is, 
but that once he was not ; consequently there 
must have been a cause. But our idea of causa- 
tion is alone derivable from the constant con- 
junction of objects and the consequent infer- 
ence of one from the other ; and, reasoning 
experimentally, we can only infer from effects 
causes exactly adequate to those effects. But 
there certainly is a generative power which is 
effected by certain instruments ; we cannot 
prove that it is inherent in these instruments ; 
nor is the contrary hypothesis capable of de- 
monstration. We admit that the generative 
power is incomprehensible ; but to suppose that 
the same effect is produced by an eternal, om- 
niscient, omnipotent being leaves the cause in 
the same obscurity, but renders it more incom- 
prehensible. 

3rd. Testimony. It is required that testi- 
mony should not be contrary to reason. The 
testimony that the Deity convinces the senses 
of men of his existence can only be admitted by 
us, if our mind considers it less probable that 
these men should have been deceived than that 
the Deity should have appeared to them. Our 
reason can never admit the testimony of men 
who not only declare that they were eye-wit- 
nesses of miracles, but that the Deity was irra- 
tional ; for he commanded that he should be 
believed, he proposed the highest rewards for 
faith, eternal punishments for disbelief. We 
can only command voluntary actions ; belief is 
not an act of volition ; the mind is even passive, 
or involuntarily active ; from this it is evident 
that we have no sufficient testimony, or rather 
that testimony is insufficient to prove the being 
of a God. It has been before shown that it 
cannot be deduced from reason. They alone, 
then, who have been convinced by the evidence 
of the senses, can believe it. 

Hence it is evident that, having no proofs 
from either of the three sources of conviction, 
the mind cannot believe the existence of a crea- 
tive God ; it is also evident that, as belief is a 
passion of the mind, no degree of criminality is 
attachable to disbelief ; and that they only are 
reprehensible who neglect to remove the false 
medium through which their mind views any 
subject of discussion. Every reflecting mind 
must acknowledge that there is no proof of the 
existence of a Deity. 

God is an hypothesis, and, as siich, stands in 
need of proof ; the onus probandi rests on the 
theist. Sir Isaac Newton says : '' Hypotheses 
non fingo, quicquid enim ex phaenomenis non 
deducitur hypothesis vocanda est, et hypothesis 
vel metaphysicae, vel physicae, vel qualitatum 
occultarum, seu mechanicae, in philosophia lo- 
cum non habent.' To all proofs of the exist- 
ence of a creative God apply this valuable rule. 
We see a variety of bodies possessing a variety 
of powers ; we merely know their effects ; we 
are in a state of ignorance with respect to their 



SHELLEY'S NOTES TO QUEEN MAB 



603 



essences and causes. These Newton calls the 
phenomena of things ; but the pride of philos- 
ophy is unwilling to admit its ignorance of their 
causes. From tlie phenomena, which are the 
objects of our senses, we attempt to infer a 
cause, which we call God, and gratuitously en- 
dow it with all negative and contradictory 
qualities. From this hypothesis we invent this 
general naine to conceal our ignorance of causes 
and essences. The being, called God, by no 
means answers with the conditions prescribed 
by Newton ; it bears every mark of a veil 
woven by philosophical conceit to hide the ig- 
norance of philosophers even from themselves. 
They borrow the threads of its texture from the 
anthropomorphism of the vulgar. Words have 
been used by sophists for the same purposes, 
from the ' occult qualities ' of the Peripatetics 
to the effluvium of Boyle and the crinities or 
nehulm of Herschel. God is represented as in- 
finite, eternal, incomprehensible ; he is con- 
tained under every pri^dicate in non that the 
logic of ignorance could fabricate. Even his 
worshippers allow that it is imjiossible to form 
any idea of him ; they exclaim with the French 
poet, 

Pour dire ce quHl est, ilfaui itre lui-m^me. 



Lord Bacon says, that ' atheism leaves to 
man reason, philosophy, natural piety, laws, 
reputation, and everything that can serve to 
conduct him to virtue ; but superstition de- 
stroys all these, and erects itself into a tyranny 
over the understandings of men : hence atheism 
never disturbs the government, but renders 
man more clear-sighted, since he sees nothing 
beyond the boundaries of the present life.' 

Bacon's Moral Essays. 

[Here a long passage from Systhne de la Na- 
ture par M. Mirabaud (Baron d'Holbach), Lon- 
don, 1781, is omitted by the advice of the general 
editor.] 

The enlightened and benevolent Pliny thus 
publicly professes himself an atheist : ' Qua- 
propter ef&giem Dei formamque quaerere im- 
becillitatis humanae reor. Quisquis est Deus (si 
modo est alius) et quacunque in parte, totus est 
sensus, totus est visus, totus auditus, totus an- 
imse, totus animi, totus sui. . . . Imperfectae 
vero in homine naturas praeeipua solatia ne deum 
quidem posse omnia. Namque nee sibi potest 
mortem consciscere, si velit, quod homini dedit 
optimum in tantis vitae poenis : nee mortales 
seternitate donare, aut revocare defunctos ; nee 
facere ut qui vixit non vixerit, qui honores ges- 
sit non gesserit, nullumque habere in praeterita 
jus praeterquam oblivionis, atque (ut facetis 
quoque argumentis societas haec cum deo copu- 
letur) ut bis dena viginta non sint aut multa 
similiter efficere non posse, per quae declaratur 
baud dubie naturae potentia idque esse quod 
Deum vocemus.' — Plin. Nat. Hist. ii. cap. 7. 

The consistent Newtonian is necessarily an 
atheist. See Sir W. Drummond's Academical 
Questions^ chap. iii. — Sir W. seems to consider 



the atheism to which it leads, as a sufficient 
presumption of the falsehood of the system of 
gravitation ; but surely it is more consistent 
with the good faith of philosophy to admit a 
deduction from facts than an hypothesis inca- 
pable of proof, although it might militate with 
the obstinate preconceptions of the mob. Had 
this author, instead of inveighing against the 
guilt and absurdity of atheism, demonstrated 
its falsehood, his conduet would have been more 
suited to the modesty of the sceptic and the 
toleration of the philosopher. 



Omnia enim per Dei potentiam facta sunt. 
Imo quia Naturae potentia nulla est nisi ipsa 
Dei potentia, certum est nos eatenus Dei poten- 
tiam non intelligere, quatenus causas naturales 
ignoramus ; adeoque stulte ad eandem Dei po- 
tentiam reeurritur, quando rei alicujus causam 
naturalem, hoc est ipsara Dei potentiam, igno- 
ramus. 

Spinoza, Tract. Theologino-Pol. cap. i. p. 14o 

Vn. G7:- 

Ahasuerus, rise! 

' Ahasuerus the Jew crept forth from the 
dark cave of Mount Carmel, Near two thou- 
sand years have elapsed since he was first goaded 
by never-ending restlessness to rove the globe 
from pole to pole. When our Lord was wearied 
with the burden of his ponderous cross and 
wanted to rest before the door of Ahasuerus, the 
unfeeling wretch drove him away with brutality. 
The Saviour of mankind staggered, sinking 
under the heavy load, but uttered no com- 
plaint. An angel of death appeared before 
Ahasuerus, and exclaimed indignantly, " Bar- 
barian ! thou hast denied rest to the Son of 
Man ; be it denied thee also, until he comes to 
judge the world." 

' A black demon, let loose from hell upon 
Ahasuerus, goads him now from country to 
country ; he is denied the consolation which 
death affords and precluded from the rest of 
the peaceful grave. 

' Ahasuerus crept forth from the dark cave 
of Mount Carmel ; he shook the dust from his 
beard, and taking up one of the skulls heaped 
there hurled it down the eminence ; it rebounded 
from the earth in shivered atoms. " This was 
my father!" roared Ahasuerus. Seven more 
skulls rolled down from rock to rock, while 
the infuriate Jew, following them with ghastly 
looks, exclaimed — "And these were my 
wives ! " He still continued to hurl down skull 
after skull, roaring in dreadful accents — 
" And these, and these, and these, were my 
children ! They could die, but I, reprobate 
wretch, alas ! I cannot die ! Dreadful beyond 
conception is the judgment that hangs over me. 
Jerusalem fell — I crushed the sucking babe, 
and precipitated myself into the destructive 
flames. I cursed the Romans — but, alas ! 
alas ! the restless curse held me by the hair, — 
and I could not die ! 

' " Rome, the giantess, fell ; I placed myself 
before the fallen statue ; she fell, and did no» 



6o4 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



crush me. Nations sprung up and disappeared 
before nie ; but I remained and did not die. 
From cloud-encircled cliffs did I precipitate 
myself into the ocean ; but the f oaminj? billows 
cast me upon the shore, and the burning arrow 
of existence pierced my cold heart again. I 
leaped into Etna's flaming abyss, and roared 
with the giants for ten long months, polluting 
with my groans the Mount's sulphureous mouth 
— ah ! ten long months ! The volcano fer- 
mented, and in a fiery stream of lava cast me 
up. I lay torn by the torture-snakes of hell 
amid the glowing cinders, and yet continued to 
exist. A forest was on fire ; I darted on wings 
of fury and despair into the crackling wood. 
Fire dropped upon me from the trees, but the 
flames only singed my limbs ; alas ! it could not 
consume them. I now mixed with the butchers 
of mankind and plunged in the tempest of the 
raging battle. I roared defiance to the infuri- 
ate Gaul, defiance to the victorious German ; 
but arrows and spears rebounded in shivers 
from my body. The Saracen's flaming sword 
broke upon my skull ; balls in vain hissed upon 
me ; the lightnings of battle glared harmless 
around my loins ; in vain did the elephant 
trample on me, in vain the iron hoof of the 
wrathful steed I The mine, big with destruc- 
tive power, burst under me, and hurled me 
high in the air. I fell on heaps of smoking 
limbs, but was only singed. The giant's steel 
club rebounded from my body, the executioner's 
hand could not strangle me, the tiger's tooth 
could not pierce me, nor would the hungry lion 
in the circus devour me. I cohabited with 
poisonous snakes, and pinched the red crest of 
the dragon. The serpent stung, but could not 
destroy me. The dragon tormented, but dared 
not to devour me. I now provoked the fury of 
tyrants. I said to Nero, ' Thou art a blood- 
hound ! ' I said to Christiern, ' Thou art a blood- 
hound ! ' I said to Muley Ismael, ' Thou art a 
bloodhound ! ' The tyrants invented cruel tor- 
ments, but did not kill me. — Ha ! not to be able 
to die — not to be able to die — not to be permit- 
ted to rest after the toils of life — to be doomed 
to be imprisoned forever in the clay-formed dun- 
geon — to be forever clogged with this worthless 
body, its load of diseases and infirmities — to 
be condemned to hold for millenniums that 
yawning monster Sameness, and Time, that 
hungry hyena, ever bearing children and ever 
devouring again her offspring ! — Ha ! not to be 

Eermitted to die ! Awful avenger in heaven, 
ast thou in thine armory of wrath a punish- 
ment more dreadful ? then let it thunder upon 
me ; command a hurricane to sweep me down 
to the foot of Carmel that I there may lie ex- 
tended ; may pant, and writhe, and die ! " ' 

This fragment is the translation of part of 
some German work, whose title I have vainly 
endeavored to discover. I picked it up, dirty 
and torn, some years ago, in Lincoln's-Inn 
Fields. 
VIL 135, 136: — 

I will beget a Son, and he shall bear 
"She sins of all the world. 



A book is put into our hands when children, 
called the Bible, the purport of whose history 
is briefly this. That God made the earth in six 
days, and there planted a delightful garden, in 
which he placed the first pair of human beings. 
In the midst of the garden he planted a tree, 
whose fruit, although within their reach, they 
were forbidden to touch. That the Devil, in the 
shape of a snake, persuaded them to eat of this 
fruit ; in consequence of which God condemned 
both them and their posterity yet unborn to 
satisfy his justice by their eternal misery. 
That four thousand years after these events 
(the human race in the meanwhile having gone 
unredeemed to perdition) God engendered with 
the betrothed wife of a carpenter in Judea 
(whose virginity was nevertheless uninjured), 
and begat a Son, whose name was Jesus Christ ; 
and who was crucified and died, in order that 
no more men might be devoted to hell-fire, he 
bearing the burden of his Father's displeasure 
by proxy. The book states, in addition, that 
the soixl of whoever disbelieves this sacrifice 
will be burned with everlasting fire. 

During many ages of misery and darkness thL** 
story gained implicit belief ; but at length men 
arose who suspected that it was a fable and im< 
posture, and that Jesus Christ, so far from be- 
ing a God, was only a man like themselves. 
But a numerous set of men, who derived and 
still derive immense emoluments from this 
opinion in the shape of a popular belief, told 
the vulgar that if they did not believe in the 
Bible, they would be damned to all eternity • 
and burned, imprisoned and poisoned all th 
lanbiassed and unconnected inquirers who occa- 
sionally arose. They still oppress them, so far 
as the people, now become more enlightened, 
will allow. 

The belief in all that the Bible contains is 
called Christianity, A Roman governor of 
Judea, at the instance of a priest-led mob, 
crucified a man called Jesus eighteen centuries 
ago. He was a man of pure life, who desired 
to rescue his countrymen from the tyranny of 
their barbarous and degrading superstitions. 
The common fate of all who desire to benefit 
mankind awaited him. The rabble at the in- 
stigation of the priests demanded his death, 
although his very judge made public acknow- 
ledgment of his innocence. Jesus was sacri- 
ficed to the honor of that God with whom he 
was afterwards confounded. It is of importance, 
therefore, to distinguish between the pretended 
character of this being as the Son of God and 
the Saviour of the world, and his real charac- 
ter as a man, who for a vain attempt to reform 
the world paid the forfeit of his life to that 
overbearing tyranny which has since so long 
desolated the universe in his name. Whilst 
the one is a hypocritical demon, who announces 
himself as the God of compassion and peace 
even whilst he stretches forth his blood-red 
hand with the sword of discord to waste the 
earth, having confessedly devised this scheme 
of desolation from eternity ; the other stands 
in the foremost list of those true heroes who 



SHELLEY'S NOTES TO QUEEN MAB 



eoy 



have died in the glorious martyrdom of liberty 
and have braved torture, contempt and poverty 
in the cause of suffering humanity. ^ 

The vulgar, ever in extremes, became per- 
suaded that the crucifixion of Jesus was a super- 
natural event. Testimonies of miracles, so fre- 
quent in unenlightened ages, were not wanting 
to prove that he was sometliing divine. This 
belief, rolling through the lapse of ages, met 
with the reveries of Plato and the reasonings of 
Aristotle, and acquired force and extent, until 
the divinity of Jesus became a dogma, which to 
dispute was death, which to doubt was infamy. 

Christianity is now the established religion. 
He who attempts to impugn it must be con- 
tented to behold murderers and traitors take 
precedence of him in public opinion ; though, 
if his genius be equal to his courage and assisted 
by a peculiar coalition of circumstances, future 
ages may exalt him to a divinity and persecute 
others in his name, as he was persecuted in the 
name of his predecessor in the homage of the 
world. 

The same means that have supported every 
other popular belief have supported Christian- 
ity. War, imprisonment, assassination and 
falsehood, deeds of unexampled and incompar- 
able atrocity, have made it what it is. The 
blood, shed by the votaries of the God of 
mercy and peace since the establishment of his 
religion, would probably suffice to drown all 
other sectaries now on the habitable globe. 
We derive from our ancestors a faith thus fos- 
tered and supported ; we quarrel, persecute and 
hate for its maintenance. Even under a gov- 
ernment which, whilst it infringes the very right 
of thought and speech, boasts of permitting the 
liberty of the press, a man is pilloried and im- 
prisoned because he is a deist, and no one raises 
his voice in the indignation of outraged human- 
ity. But it is ever a proof that the falsehood 
of a proposition is felt by those who use co- 
ercion, not reasoning, to procure its admission ; 
and a dispassionate observer would feel himself 
more powerfully interested in favor of a man 
who, depending on the truth of his opinions, 
simply stated his reasons for entertaining them, 
than in that of his aggressor who, daringly 
avowing his unwillingness or incapacity to an- 
swer them by argument, proceeded to repress 
the energies and break the spirit of their pro- 
mulgator by that torture and imprisonment 
whose infliction he could command. 

Analogy seems to favor the opinion that, as 
like other systems, Christianity has arisen and 
augmented, so like them it will decay and per- 
ish ; that, as violence, darkness and deceit, not 
reasoning and persuasion, have procured its ad- 
mission among mankind, so, when enthusiasm 
has subsided, and time, that infallible contro- 
verter of false opinions, has involved its pre- 
tended evidences in the darkness of antiquity, 
it will become obsolete ; that Milton's poem 
alone will give permanency to the remembrance 

1 Since writing this note I have seen reason to suspect 
that Jesus was an ambitious man who aspired to the 
fchrone of Judea. 



of its absurdities ; and that men will laugh as 
heartily at grace, faith, redemption and original 
sin, as they now do at the m^etamorphoses of 
Jupiter, the miracles of Romish saints, the effi- 
cacy of witchcraft, and the appearance of de- 
parted spirits. 

Had the Christian religion commenced and 
continued by the mere force of reasoning and 
persuasion, the preceding analogy would be in- 
admissible. We should never speculate on the 
future obsoleteness of a sj'stem perfectly con- 
formable to Nature and reason ; it would en- 
dure so long as they endured ; it would be a 
truth as indisputable as the light of the sun, 
the criminality of murder, and other facts 
whose evidence, depending on our organization 
and relative situations, must remain acknow- 
ledged as satisfactory so long as man is man. 
It is an incontrovertible fact, the considera- 
tion of which ought to repress the hasty con- 
clusions of credulity or moderate its obsti- 
nacy in maintaining them, that, had the Jews 
not been a fanatical race of men, had even the 
resolution of Pontius Pilate been equal to his 
candor, the Christian religion never could have 
prevailed, it could not even have existed ; on 
so feeble a thread hangs the most cherished 
opinion of a sixth of the human race ! When 
Avill the vulgar learn humility ? When will the 
pride of ignorance blush at having believed be- 
fore it could comprehend ? 

Either the Christian religion is true, or it is 
false ; if true, it comes from God and its au- 
thenticity can admit of doubt and dispute no 
further than its omnipotent author is willing to 
allow. Either the power or the goodness of 
God is called in question if he leaves those doc- 
trines most essential to the well being of man 
in doubt and dispute ; the only ones which, 
since their promulgation, have been the subject 
of unceasing cavil, the cause of irreconcilable 
hatred. ' If God has spoken, why is the uni- 
verse not convinced ? ' 

There is this passage in the Christian Scrip- 
tures : ' Tliose who obey not God and believe 
not the Gospel of his Son, shall be punished 
with everlasting destruction.' This is the 
pivot upon which all religions turn ; they all 
assume that it is in our power to believe or not 
to believe ; whereas the mind can only believe 
that which it thinks true. A human being can 
only be supposed accountable for those actions 
which are influenced by his will. But belief is 
utterly distinct from and unconnected with 
volition ; it is the apprehension of the agree- 
ment or disagreement of the ideas that com- 
pose any proposition. Belief is a passion, or in- 
voluntary operation of the mind, and, like other 
passions, its intensity is precisely proportionate 
to the degrees of excitement. Volition is es- 
sential to merit or demerit. But the Christian 
religion attaches the highest possible degrees 
of merit and demerit to that which is worthy of 
neither and which is totally unconnected with 
the peculiar faculty of the mind whose presence 
is essential to their being. 

Christianity was intended to reform the 



6o6 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



world. Had an all-wise Being planned it, 
nothing is more improbable than that it should 
have failed ; omniscience would infallibly have 
foreseen the inutility of a scheme which ex- 
perience demonstrates, to this age, to have been 
utterly unsuccessful. 

Christianity inculcates the necessity of sup- 
plicating the Deity. Prayer may be considered 
under two points of view ; — as an endeavor to 
change the intentions of God, or as a formal 
testimony of our obedience. But the former 
case supposes that the caprices of a limited in- 
telligence can occasionally instruct the Creator 
of the world how to regulate the universe ; and 
the latter, a certain degree of servility analo- 
gous to the loyalty demanded by earthly ty- 
rants. Obedience indeed is only the pitiful and 
cowardly egotism of him who thinks that he 
can do something better than reason. 

Christianity, like all other religions, rests 
upon miracles, prophecies and martyrdoms. 
No religion ever existed which had not its 
prophets, its attested miracles, and, above 
all, crowds of devotees who would bear pa- 
tiently the most horrible tortures to jirove its 
authenticity. It should appear that in no case 
can a discriminating mind subscribe to the 
genuineness of a miracle. A m.iracle is an in- 
fraction of Nature's law by a supernatural 
cause ; by a cause acting beyond that eternal 
circle within which all things are included. 
God breaks through the law of Nature that he 
may convince mankind of the truth of that 
revelation which, in spite of his precautions, 
has been since its introduction the subject of 
unceasing schism and cavil. 

Miracles resolve themselves into the follow- 
ing question : i — Whether it is more probable 
the laws of Nature, hitherto so immutably har- 
monious, should have undergone violation, or 
that a man shoidd have told a lie ? Whether 
it is more probable that we are ignorant of the 
natural cause of an event or that we know the 
supernatural one ? That, in old times, when 
the powers of Nature were less known than at 
present, a certain set of men were themselves 
deceived or had some hidden motive for de- 
ceiving others ; or that God begat a son who 
in his legislation, measuring merit by belief, 
evidenced himself to be totally ignorant of the 
powers of the human mind — of what is volun- 
tary, and what is the contrary ? 

We have many instances of men telling lies ; 
none of an infraction of Nature's laws, those 
laws of whose government alone we have any 
knowledge or experience. The records of all 
nations afford inniimerable instances of men 
deceiving others either from vanity or interest, 
or themselves being deceived by the limited- 
ness of their views and their ignorance of natu- 
ral causes ; but where is the accredited case of 
God having come upon earth, to give the lie to 
his own creations ? There would be something 
truly wonderful in the appearance of a ghost ; 
but the assertion of a child that he saw one as 

1 See Hume's Essays, vol, ii. p. 121. 



he passed through the churchyard is universally 
admitted to be less miraculous. 

But even supposing that a man should raise 
a dead body to life before our ej^es, and on this 
fact rest his claim to being considered the son of 
God ; — the Humane Society restores drowned 
persons, and because it makes no mystery of 
the method it employs its members are not mis- 
taken for the sons of God. All that we have a 
right to infer from our ignorance of the cause 
of any event is that Ave do not know it. Had 
the Mexicans attended to this simple rule when 
they heard the cannon of the Spaniards, they 
would not have considered them as gods. The 
experiments of modern chemistry would have 
defied the wisest philosophers of ancient Greece 
and Rome to have accounted for them on 
natural principles. An author of strong com- 
mon sense has observed that ' a miracle is no 
miracle at second-hand ; ' he might have added 
that a miracle is no miracle in any case ; for 
until we are acquainted with all natural causes 
we have no reason to imagine others. 

There remains to be considered another proof 
of Christianity — Prophecy. A book is written 
before a certain event, in which this event is 
foretold ; how could the prophet have fore- 
known it without inspiration ? how could he 
have been inspired without God ? The greatest 
stress is laid on the prophecies of Moses and 
Hosea on the dispersion of the Jews, and that 
of Isaiah concerning the coming of the Messiah. 
The prophecy of Moses is a collection of every 
possible cursing and blessing ; and it is so far 
from being marvellous that the one of disper- 
sion should have been fulfilled that it would 
have been more surprising if, out of all these, 
none should have taken effect. In Deuteronomy, 
chap, xxviii. v. (54, where Moses explicitly fore- 
tells the dispersion, he states that they shall 
there serve gods of wood and stone : ' And the 
Lord shall scatter thee among all people, from 
the one end of the earth even unto the other, 
and there thoushalt serve other gods, which neither 
thou nor thy fathers have known, even gods of wood 
and stone.'' The Jews are at this day remark- 
ably tenacious of their religion. Moses also 
declares that they shall be subjected to these 
curses for disobedience to his ritual : ' And it 
shall come to pass if thou wilt not hearken unto 
the voice of the Lord thy God, to observe to do 
all the commandments and statutes which I 
command you this day, that all these curses shall 
come upon thee and overtake thee.' Is this 
the real reason ? The third, fourth and fifth 
chapters of Hosea are a piece of immodest con- 
fession. The indelicate type might apply in a 
hundred senses to a hundred things. The fifty- 
third chapter of Isaiah is more explicit, yet it 
does not exceed in clearness the oracles of Del- 
phos. The historical proof that Moses, Isaiah 
and Hosea did write when they are said to have 
written, is far from being clear and circumstan- 
tial. 

But prophecy requires proof in its character 

as a miracle ; we have no right to suppose that 

, a man foreknew future events from God, until 



SHELLEY'S NOTES TO QUEEN MAB 



607 



it ifi demonstrated that he neither could know 
ihem by his own exertions, nor that the writings 
which contain the prediction could possibly have 
been fabricated after the event pretended to 
be foretold. It is more probable that writ- 
ings, pretending to divine inspiration, should 
have been fabricated after the fulfilment of 
their pretended prediction, than that they 
should have really been divinely inspired, when 
we consider that the latter supposition makes 
God at once the creator of the human mind and 
ignorant of its primary powers, particularly as 
we have numberless instances of false religions 
and forged prophecies of things long past, and 
no accredited case of God having conversed 
with men directly or indirectly. It is also pos- 
sible that the description of an event might have 
foregone its occurrence : but this is far from be- 
ing a legitimate proof of a divine revelation, as 
many men, not pretending to the character of a 
prophet, have nevertheless, in this sense, pro- 
phesied. 

Lord Chesterfield was never yet taken for a 
prophet, even by a bishop, yet he uttered this 
remarkable prediction : ' The despotic govern- 
ment of France is screwed uji to the highest 
pitch ; a revolution is fast approaching ; that 
revolution, I am convinced, will be radical and 
sanguinary.' This appeared in the letters of 
the prophet long before the accomplishment of 
this wonderful prediction. Now, have these 
particulars come to pass, or have they not ? If 
they have, how could the Earl have foreknown 
them without inspiration V If we admit the 
truth of the Christian religion on testimony such 
as this, we must admit, on the same strength 
of evidence, that God has affixed the highest 
rewards to belief and the eternal tortures of 
the never-dying worm to disbelief ; both of 
which have been demonstrated to be involun- 
tary. 

The last proof of the Christian religion de- 
pends on the influence of the Holy Ghost. 
Theologians divide the influence of the Holy 
Ghost into its ordinary and extraordinary modes 
of operation. The latter is supposed to be that 
which inspired the Prophets and Apostles ; and 
the former to be the grace of God, which sum- 
marily makes known the truth of his revelation 
to those whose mind is fitted for its reception 
by a submissive perusal of his word. Persons 
convinced in this manner can do anything but 
account for their conviction, describe the time 
at which it happened or the manner in which it 
came upon them. It is supposed to enter the 
xnind by other channels than those of the senses, 
and therefore professes to be superior to reason 
founded on their experience. 

Admitting, however, the usefulness or possi- 
bility of a divine revelation, unless we demolish 
the foundations of all human knowledge, it is 
requisite that our reason should previously 
demonstrate its genuineness ; for, before we 
Extinguish the steady ray of reason and common 
Sense, it is fit that we should discover whether 
we cannot do without their assistance, whether 
Or- no there be any other which may suffice to 



guide us through the labyrinth of life : 1 for, if 
a man is to be inspired upon all occasions, if he 
is to be sure of a thing because he is sure, if the 
ordinary operations of the Spirit are not to be 
considered very extraordinary modes of demon- 
stration, if enthusiasm is to usurp the place of 
proof, and madness that of sanity, all reasoning 
is superfluous. The Mahometan dies fighting 
for his prophet, the Indian immolates himself 
at the chariot-wheels of Brahma, the Hottentot 
worships an insect, the Negro a bunch of 
feathers, the Mexican sacrifices human victims ! 
Their degree of conviction must certainly be 
very strong ; it cannot arise from reasoning, it 
must from feelings, the reward of their prayers. 
If each of these should affirm, in opposition to 
the strongest possible arguments, that inspira- 
tion carried internal evidence, I fear their in- 
spired brethren, the orthodox missionaries, 
would be so uncharitable as to pronounce them 
obstinate. 

Miracles cannot be received as testimonies of 
a disputed fact, because all human testimony 
has ever been insufficient to establish the pos- 
sibility of miracles. That which is incapable of 
proof itself is no proof of anything else. Pro- 
phecy has also been rejected by the test of 
reason. Those, then, who have been actually 
inspired, are the only true believers in the 
Christian religion. 

Mox numine viso 
Virginei tumuere siiuis, innuptaque mater 
Arcano stupuit compleri viscera partu 
Auctorem paritura suum. Mortalia corda 
Artificem texere poll, . . . 

. . . latuitque sub uno 
Pectore, qui totum late complectitur orbem. 

Claudian, Carmen Paschali. 

Does not so monstrous and disgusting an ab- 
surdity carry its own infamy and refutation 
with itself ? 

VIII. 203-207 : — 

Him, still from hope to hope the bliss pursuing 
Which from the exhaustless store of human weal 
Draws on the virtuous mind the thoughts that rise 
In time-destroying infiniteness gift 
With self-eushrined eternity, .Src. 

Time is our consciousness of the succession of 
ideas in our mind. Vivid sensation of either pain 
or pleasure makes the time seem long, as the 
common plirase is, because it renders us more 
acutely conscious of our ideas. If a mind be con- 
scious of an hundred ideas during one minute by 
the clock, and of two hundred during another, 
the latter of these spaces would actually occupy 
so much greater extent in the mind as two ex- 
ceed one in quantity. If, therefore, the human 
mind by any future improvement of its sensibil- 
ity should become conscious of an infinite num- 
ber of ideas in a minute, that minute would be 
eternity. I do not hence infer that the actual 
space between the birth and death of a man 
will ever be prolonged ; but that his sensibility 
is perfectible, and that the number of ideas 

1 See Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding, 
book iv. chap, xix., on Enthusiasm. 



6o8 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



which his mind is capable of receiving is in- 
definite. One man is stretched on the rack dur- 
ing' twelve hours, another sleeps soundly in his 
bed ; the difference of time perceived by these 
two persons is immense ; one hardly will believe 
that half an hour has elapsed, the other could 
credit that centuries had flown during his agony. 
Thus the life of a man of virtue and talent, 
who should die in his tliirtieth year, is with re- 
gard to his own feelings longer than that of a 
miserable priest-ridden slave who dreams out a 
century of dulness. The one has perpetually 
cultivated his mental faculties, has rendered 
himself master of his thoughts, can abstract 
and generalize amid the lethargy of every-day 
business ; the other can slumber over the bright- 
est moments of his being and is unable to re- 
member the happiest hour of his life. Perhaps 
the perishing ephemeron enjoys a longer life 
than the tortoise. 

Dark flood of time ! 
Roll as it listeth thee — I measure not 
By months or moments thy ambiguous course. 
Another may stand by me on the brink 
And watch the bubble whirled beyond his ken 
That pauses at my feet. The sense of love, 
The thirst for action, and the impassioned thought, 
Prolong my being ; if I wake no more, 
My life more actual living will contain 
Thau some grey veteran's of the world's cold school, 
Whose listless hours unprofitably roll. 
By one enthusiast feeling unredeemed. 

See Godwin's Pol. Jus. vol. i. p. 411 ; — andCon- 
dorcet, Esquisse (fun Tableau HistoHque des 
Progres de V Esprit Humain, Epoque ix. 

VIII. 211, 212 : — 

No longer now 
He slays the lamb that looks him in the face. 

I hold that the deprav'tv of the physical and 
moral nature of man originated in his unnat- 
ural habits of life. Thp origin of man, like 
that of the universe of wn^ch he is a part, is en- 
veloped in impenetrable mystery. His genera- 
tions either had a beginning or they had not. 
The weight of evidence in favor of each of 
these suppositions seems tolerably equal ; and 
it is perfectly unimportant to the present argu- 
ment which is assumed. The language spoken, 
however, by the mythology of nearly all reli- 
gions seems to prove that at some distant period 
man forsook the path of Nature and sacrificed 
the purity and happiness of his being to unnat- 
ural appetites. The date of this event seems 
to have also been that of some great change in 
the climates of the earth, with which it has an 
obvious correspondence. The allegory of Adam 
and Eve eating of the tree of evil and entailing 
upon their posterity the wrath of God and i,ne 
loss of everlasting life, admli? "f no other ex- 
planation than the disease and crime that have 
flowed from unnatural diet. Milton was so 
well aware of this that he makes Raphael thus 
exhibit to Adam the consequence of his disobe- 
dience : — 

' Immediately a place 

Before his eyes appeared, sad, noisome, dark; 

A lazar-house it seem'd, wherein were laid 

Numbers of all diseased — all maladies 



Of ghastly spasm, or racking torture, qualms 
Of heart-sick agony, all feverous kinds, 
Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs, 
Intestine stone and ulcer, colic pangs, 
Dsemoniac frenzy, moping melancholy, 
And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy. 
Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence. 
Dropsies and asthmas, and joint-racking rheumf.. 

And how many thousands more might not be 
added to this frightful catalogue ! 

The story of Prometheus is one likewise 
which, although universally admitted to be 
allegorical, has never been satisfactorily ex- 
plained. Prometheus stole fire from heaven 
and was chained for this crime to Mount Cau- 
casus, where a vulture continually devoured 
his liver, that grew to meet its hunger. Hesiod 
says that before the time of Prometheus man- 
kind were exempt from suffering ; that they 
enjoyed a vigorous youth, and that death, when 
at length it came, approached like sleep and 
gently closed their eyes. Again, so general was 
this opinion, that Horace, a poet of the Augus- 
tan age, writes : — 

Audax omnia perpeti, 
Gens humana ruit per vetitum nefas ; 

Audax lapeti genus 
Ignem fraude mala gentibus intulit : 

Post ignem setheria domo 
Subductum, macies et nova febrium 

Terris incubuit cohors, 
Semotique prius tarda necessitas 

Lethi corripuit gradum. 

How plain a language is spoken by all this 
Prometheus (who represents the human race; 
effected some great change in the condition of 
his nature, and applied fire to culinary pur- 
poses ; thus inventing an expedient for screen- 
ing from his disgust the horrors of the shambles. 
From this moment his vitals were devoured by 
the vulture of disease. It consumed his being 
in every shape of its loathsome and infinite va- 
riety, inducing the soul-quelling sinkings of 
premature and violent death. All vice arose 
from the ruin of healthful innocence. Tyr- 
anny, superstition, commerce and inequality 
were then first known when reason vainly at- 
tempted to guide the wanderings of exacerbated 
passion. I conclude this part of the subject 
with an extract from Mr. Newton's Defence of 
Vegetable Regimen., from whom I have borrowed 
this interpretation of the fable of Prometheus. 
' Making allowance for such transposition of 
the events of the allegory as time might pro- 
duce after the important truths were forgotten 
which this portion of the ancient mythology 
was intended to transmit, the drift of the fable 
appears to be this : — Man at his creation was 
endowed with the gift of perpetual youth ; that 
is, he was not formed to be a sickly suffering 
creature as now Ave see him, but to enjoy health, 
and to sink by slow degrees into the bosom of 
his parent earth without disease or pain. Pro- 
metheus first taught the use of animal food ' 
(primus bovem occidit Prometheus ^) ' and of fire, 
with which to render it more digestible ana 
1 Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. vii. sect. 57. 



SHELLEY'S NOTES TO QUEEN MAB 



609 



pleasing to the taste. Jupiter, and the rest of 
the gods, foreseeing the consequences of these 
inventions, were amused or irritated at the 
short-sighted devices of the newly formed crea- 
ture, and left him to experience the sad effects 
of them. Thirst, the necessary concomitant of 
a flesh diet,' (perhaps of all diet vitiated by 
culinary preparation) ' ensued ; water was re- 
sorted to, and man forfeited the inestimable 
gift of health which he had received from hea- 
ven : he became diseased, the partaker of a 
precarious existence, and no longer descended 
slowly to his grave.' 1 

' But just disease to luxury succeeds, 
And every death its own avenger breeds ; 
The fury passions from that blood began. 
And turned on man a fiercer savage — man.' 

Man and the animals whom he has infected 
with his society or depraved by his dominion 
are alone diseased. The wild hog, the mouflon, 
the bison and the wolf are perfectly exempt 
from malady and invariably die either from ex- 
ternal violence or natural old age. But the 
domestic hog, the sheep, the cow and the dog 
are subject to an incredible variety of distem- 
pers ; and, like the corrupters of their nature, 
have physicians who thrive upon their miseries. 
The supereminence of man is like Satan's, a 
supereminence of pain ; and the majority of his 
species, doomed to penury, disease and crime, 
have reason to ctirse the untoward event that 
by enabling him to communicate his sensations 
raised him above the level of his fellow animals. 
But the steps that have been taken are irrevo- 
cable. The whole of human science is com- 
prised in one question : How can the advantages 
of intellect and civilization be reconciled with 
the liberty and pure pleasures of natural life ? 
How can we take the benefits and reject the 
evils of the system which is now interwoven 
with all the fibres of our being ? — I believe that 
abstinence from animal food and spirituous 
liquors would in a great measure capacitate us 
for the solution of this important question. 

It is true that mental and bodily derange- 
ment is attributable in part to other deviations 
from rectitude and Nature than those which 
concern diet. The mistakes cherished by so- 
ciety respecting the connection of the sexes, 
whence the misery and diseases of unsatisfied 
celibacy, unenjoying prostitution, and the pre- 
mature arrival of puberty, necessarily spring ; 
the putrid atmosphere of crowded cities ; the 
exhalations erf chemical processes ; the muffling 
of our bodies in superfluous apparel ; the absurd 
treatment of infants ; — all these, and innu- 
merable other causes, contribute their mite to 
the mass of human evil. 

Comparative anatomy teaches us that man 
resembles frugivorous animals in everything 
and carnivorous in nothing ; he has neither 
claws wherewith to seize his prey, nor distinct 
and pointed teeth to tear the living fibre. A 
Mandarin of the first class, with nails two 
inches long, would probably find them alone 
inefficient to hold even a hare. After every 
1 Return to Nature. Cadell, 1811. 



subterfuge of gluttony the bull must be de- 
graded into the ox, and the ram into the 
wether, by an unnarural and inhuman opera- 
tion, that the flaccid fibre may offer a fainter 
resistance to rebellious nature. It is only by 
softening and disguising dead flesh by culinary 
preparation that it is rendered susceptible of 
mastication or digestion, and that the sight of 
its bloody juices and raw horror does not excite 
intolerable loathing and disgust. Let the ad- 
vocate of animal food force himself to a deci- 
sive experiment on its fitness, and, as Plutarch 
recommends, tear a living lamb with his teeth, 
and, plunging his head into its vitals, slake his 
thirst with the steaming blood ; when fresh 
from the deed of horror, let him revert to the 
irresistible instincts of Nature that would rise 
in judgment against it, and say, ' Nature formed 
me for such work as this.' Then, and then 
only, would he be consistent. 

Man resembles no carnivorous animal. There 
is no exception, unless man be one, to the rule 
of herbivorous animals having cellulated co- 
lons. 

The orang-oiitang perfectly resembles man 
both in the order and number of his teeth. 
The orang-outang is the most anthropomor- 
phous of the ape tribe, all of which are strictly 
frugivorous. There is no other species of ani- 
mals, which live on different food, in which 
this analogy exists. ^ In many frugivorous ani- 
mals, the canine teeth are more pointed and 
distinct than those of man. The resemblance 
also of the human stomach to that of the orang- 
outang is greater than to that of any other 
animal. 

The intestines are also identical with those 
of herbivorous animals, which present a larger 
surface for absorption and have ample and cel- 
lulated colons. The caecum also, though short, 
is larger than that of carnivorous animals ; and 
even here the orang-outang retains its accus- 
tomed similarity. 

The structure of the human frame, then, is 
that of one fitted to a pure vegetable diet, in 
every essential particular. It is true that the 
reluctance to abstain from animal food, in those 
who have been long accustomed to its stimulus, 
is so great in some persons of weak minds as to 
be scarcely overcome ; but this is far from 
bringing any argument in its favor. A lamb, 
which was fed for some time on flesh by a 
ship's crew, refused its natural diet at the end 
of the voyage. There are numerous instances 
of horses, sheep, oxen and even wood-pigeons 
having been taught to live upon flesh until they 
have loathed their natural aliment. Young 
children evidently prefer pastry, oranges, ap- 
ples and other fruit to the flesh of animals, 
until by the gradual depravation of the diges- 
tive organs the free use of vegetables has for a 
time produced serious inconveniences ; for a 
time., I say, since there never was an instance 
wherein a change from spirituous liquors and 
animal food to vegetables and pure water has 

2 Cuvler, Le(;ons d^Anat. Comp. torn. iii. pp. 169, 
373, 448, 465, 480. Rees's Cyclopaedia, article ' Man.' 



6io 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



failed ultimately to invigorate the body by 
rendenng its juices bland and consentaneous, 
and to restore to the mind that cheerfulness 
and elasticity which not one in fifty possesses 
on the present system, A love of strong liq- 
uors is also with difficulty taught to infants. 
Almost every one remembers the wry faces 
which the first glass of port produced. Un- 
sophisticated instinct is invariably unerring ; 
but to decide on the fitness of animal food from 
the perverted appetites which its constrained 
adoption produces is to make the criminal a 
judge in his own cause ; it is even worse, it is 
appealing to the infatuated drunkard in a ques- 
tion of the salubrity of brandy. 

What is the cause of morbid action in the 
animal system? Not the air we breathe, for 
our fellow denizens of Natui'e breathe the same 
uninjured ; not the water we drink (if remote 
from the pollutions of man and his inventions ^) 
for the animals drink it too ; not the earth we 
tread upon ; not the unobscured sight of glori- 
ous Nature, in the wood, the field or the ex- 
panse of sky and ocean ; nothing that we are or 
do in common with the undiseased inliabitants 
of the forest. ISomething then wherein we 
differ from them : our habit of altering our 
food by fire so that our appetite is no longer a 
just criterion for the fitness of its gratification. 
Except in children there remain no traces of 
that instinct which determines, in all other 
animals, what aliment is natural or otherwise ; 
and so perfectly obliterated are they in the rea- 
soning adults of our species that it has become 
necessary to urge considerations drawn from 
comparative anatomy to prove that we are 
naturally frugivorous. 

Crime is madness. Madness is disease. 
Whenever the cause of disease shall be discov- 
ered, the root, from which all vice and misery 
have so long overshadowed the globe, will lie 
bare to the axe. All the exertions of man from 
that moment may be considered as tending to 
the clear profit of his species. No sane mind in 
a sane body resolves upon a I'eal crime. It is a 
man of violent passions, blood-shot eyes and 
swollen veins, that alone can grasp the knife of 
murder. The system of a simple diet promises 
no Utopian advantages. It is no mere reform 
of legislation, whilst the furious passions and 
evil propensities of the human heart, in which 
it had its origin, are still unassnaged. It 
strikes at the root of all evil and is an experi- 
ment which may be tried with success, not 
alone by nations, but by small societies, fam- 
ilies, and even individuals. In no cases has a 
return to vegetable diet produced the slightest 
injury ; in most it has been attended with 
changes undeniably beneficial. Should ever a 
physician be born with the genius of Locke, I 
am persuaded that he might trace all bodily 
and mental derangements to our unnatural 
habits as clearly as that philosopher has traced 

1 The necessity of resorting to some means of purify- 
ing water, and the disease which arises from its adul- 
teration in civilized countries, is sufficiently apparent, 
t . t See Dr. ]jJH»be'8 Reports on Cancer. I do not 



all knowledge to sensation. What prolific 
sources of disease are not those mineral and 
vegetable poisons that have been introduced for 
its extirpation ! How many thousands have 
become murderers and robbers, bigots and ao- 
mestic tyrants, dissolute and abandoned adven- 
turei'S, from the use of fermented liquors, who, 
had they slaked their thirst only with pure 
water, would have lived but to diffuse the 
happiness of their own unperverted feelings ! 
How many groundless opinions and absurd in- 
stitutions have not received a general sanction 
from the sottishness and intemperance of indi- 
viduals ! Who will assert that, had the popu- 
lace of Paris satisfied their hunger at the ever- 
furnished table of vegetable nature, they would 
have lent their brutal suffrage to the pro- 
scription-list of Robespierre ? Could a set of 
men, whose passions were not perverted by un- 
natural stimuli, look with coolness on an auto 
da fe ? Is it to be believed that a being of 
gentle feelings, rising from his meal of roots, 
would take delight in sports of blood ? Was 
Nero a man of temperate life ? could you read 
calm health in his cheek, flushed with ungov- 
ernable propensities of hatred for the human 
race ? Did Muley Ismael's pulse beat evenly, 
was his skin transparent, did his eyes beam 
with healthfulness and its invariable concomi- 
tants, cheerfulness and benignity ? Though 
history has decided none of these questions, a 
child could not hesitate to answer in the nega- 
tive. Surely the bile-suffused cheek of Buona- 
parte, his wrinkled brow and yellow eye, the 
ceaseless inquietude of his nervous system, 
speak no less plainly the character of his un- 
resting ambition than his murders and his vie- 
tories. It is impossible, had Buonaparte de- 
scended from a race of vegetable feeders, that 
he could have had either the inclination or the 
power to ascend the throne of the Bourbons. 
The desire of tyranny could scarcely be excited 
in the individual, the power to tyrannize would 
certainly not be delegated by a society neither 
frenzied by inebriation nor rendered impotent 
and irrational by disease. Pregnant indeed 
with inexhaustible calamity is the renunciation 
of instinct, as it concerns our physical nature ; 
arithmetic cannot enumerate, nor reason per- 
haps suspect, the multitudinous sources of 
disease in civilized life. Even common water, 
that apparently innoxious pabulum, when cor- 
rupted by the filth of populous cities, is a deadly 
and insidious destroyer."-^ Who can wonder that 
all the inducements held out by God himself in 
the Bible to virtue should have been vainer 
than a nurse's tale, and that those dogmas, by 
which he has there excited and justified the 
most ferocious propensities, should have alone 
been deemed essential, whilst Christians are_ in 
the daily practice of all those habits which 
have infected with disease and crime, not only 
the reprobate sons, but these favored children 

assert that the use of water is in itself unnatural, but 
that the unperverted palate would swallow »0 li<iui^ 
capable of occasioning disease. 
^ Lambe's Rcvorts on Cancer. 



SHELLEY'S NOTES TO QUEEN MAB 



611 



of the common Father's love ! Omnipotence 
itself could not save them from the conse- 
quences of this original and universal sin. 

There is no disease, bodily or mental, which 
adoption of vegetable diet and pure water has 
not infallibly mitigated, wherever the experi- 
ment has been fairly tried. Debility is gradu- 
ally converted into strength, disease into health- 
fulness ; madness, in ail its hideous variety, 
from the ravings of the fettered maniac to the 
unaccountable irrationalities of ill temper that 
make a hell of domestic life, into a calm and 
considerate evenness of temper that alone might 
offer a cei'tain pledge of the future moral re- 
formation of society. On a natural system of 
diet old age would be our last and our only 
malady ; the term of our existence would 
be protracted ; we should enjoy life and no 
longer preclude others from the enjoyment of 
it ; all sensational delights would be infinitely 
more exquisite and perfect ; the very sense of 
being would then be a continued pleasure, such 
as we now feel it in some few and favored 
moments of our youth. By all that is sacred 
in our hopes for the human race I conjure those 
who love happiness and truth to give a fair trial 
to the vegetable system. Reasoning is surely 
superfluous on a subject whose inerits an ex- 
perience of six months would set forever at rest. 
But it is only among the enlightened and bene- 
volent that so great a sacrifice of appetite and 
prejudice can be expected, even though its ulti- 
mate excellence should not admit of dispute. 
It is found easier by the short-sighted victims of 
disease to palliate their torments by medicine 
than to prevent them by regimen. The vulgar of 
all ranks are invariably sensual and indocile ; yet 
I cannot but feel myself persuaded that when 
the benefits of vegetable diet are mathemati- 
cally proved, when it is as clear that those who 
live naturally are exempt from premature death 
as that nine is not one, the most sottish of man- 
kind will feel a preference towards a long and 
tranquil, contrasted with a short and painful 
life. On the average out of sixty persons four 
die in three years. Hopes are entertained that, 
in April, 1814, a statement will be given that 
sixty persons, all having lived more than three 
years on vegetables and pure water, are then in 
jierfect health. More than two years have now 
elapsed; 7iot one of them has died; no such ex- 
ample will be found in any sixty persons taken 
at random. Seventeen persons of all ages (the 
families of Dr. Lambe and Mr. Newton) have 
lived for seven years on this diet without a 
death and almost without the slightest illness. 
Surely, when we consider that some of these 
were infants and one a martyr to asthma now 
nearly subdued, we may challenge any seven- 
teen persons taken at random in this city to 
exhibit a parallel case. Those who may have 
been excited to question the rectitude of estab- 
lished habits of diet by these loose remarks 
should consult Mr. Newton's luminous and elo- 
^[uent essay .1 

1 Refvrn to Nurture, or Defence of Vegetable Regimen. 
Cadell, 1811. 



When these proofs come fairly before the 
world and are clearly seen by all who under- 
stand arithmetic, it is scarcely possible that 
abstinence from aliments demonstrably per- 
nicious should not become universal. In pro- 
portion to the number of proselytes, so will be 
the weight of evidence ; and when a thousand 
persons can be produced, living on vegetables 
and distilled water, who have to dread no dis- 
ease but old age, the world will be compelled 
to regard animal flesh and fermented liquors as 
slow but certain poisons. The change which 
would be produced by simpler habits on politi- 
cal economy is sufficiently remarkable. The 
monopolizing eater of animal flesh would no 
longer destroy his constitution by devouring an 
acre at a meal, and manj' loaves of bread would 
cease to contribute to gout, madness and apo- 
plexy, in the shape of a pint of porter or a dram 
of gin, when appeasing the long-protracted 
famine of the hard-woi'king peasant's hungry 
babes. The quantity of nutritious vegetable 
matter consumed in fattening the carcase of an 
ox would afford ten times the sustenance, unde- 
praving indeed, and incapable of generating 
disease, if gathered immediately from the bosom 
of the earth. The most fertile districts of the 
habitable globe are now actually cultivated by 
men for animals at a delay and waste of ali- 
luent absolutely incapable of calculation. It is 
only the wealthy that can, to any great degree, 
even now, indulge the unnatural craving for 
dead flesh, and they pay for the greater license 
of the privilege bj" subjection to supernumerary 
diseases. Again, the spirit of the nation that 
should take the lead in this great reform, 
would insensibly become agricultural ; com- 
merce, with all its vice, selfishness and corrup- 
tion, would gradually decline ; more natural 
habits would produce gentler manners, and the 
excessive complication of political relations 
would be so far simplified that every individual 
might feel and understand why he loved his 
country and took a personal interest in its wel- 
fare. How would England, for example, de- 
pend on the caprices of foreign rulers, if she 
contained within herself all the necessaries and 
despised whatever they possessed of the luxu- 
ries of life ? How could they starve her into 
compliance with their views ? Of what con- 
sequence would it be that they refused to take 
her woollen manufactures, when large and fer- 
tile tracts of the island ceased to be allotted to 
the waste of pasturage ? On a natural system 
of diet, we should require no spices from India ; 
no Avines from Portugal, Spain, France or 
Madeira ; none of those multitudinous articles 
of luxury, for which every corner of the globe 
is rifled, and which are the causes of so much 
individual rivalship, such calamitous and san- 
guinary national disputes. In the history of 
modern times the avarice of commercial mono- 
poly, no less than the ambition of weak and 
wicked chiefs, seems to have fomented the uni- 
versal discord, to have added stubbornnesp to 
the mistakes of cabinets and indocility to the 
infatuation of the people. Let it ever be re 



6t2 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



memberecl that it is the direct influence of coni- 
merce to make the interval between the richest 
and the poorest man wider and more uncon- 
querable. Let it be remembered that it is a 
foe to everything of real worth and excellence 
in tlie human character. The odious and dis- 
gusting aristocracy of wealth is built upon the 
ruins of all that is good in chivalry or republi- 
canism, and Inxury is the forerunner of a bar- 
barism scarce capable of cure. Is it impossible 
to realize a state of society, where all the ener- 
gies of man shall be directed to the i^roduction 
of his solid liappiness? Certainly, if this ad- 
vantage (the object of all political speculation) 
be in any degree attainable, it is attainable 
only by a community, which holds out no fac- 
titious incentives to the avarice and ambition of 
the few and which is internally organized for 
the libertj', security and comfort of the many. 
None must be entrusted with power (and money 
is the completest species of power) who do not 
stand pledged to use it exclusively for the gen- 
eral benefit. But the use of animal flesh and 
fermented liquors directly militates with this 
equality of the rights of man. The peasant 
cannot gratify these fashionable cravings with- 
out leaving his family to starve. Without 
disease and war, those sweeping curtailers of 
population, pasturage would include a waste 
too great to be afforded. The labor requisite 
to support a family is far lighter ^ than is usu- 
ally supposed. The peasantry work, not only 
for themselves, but for the aristocracy, the 
army and the manufacturers. 

The advantage of a reform in diet is ob- 
viously greater than that of any other. It 
strikes at the root of the evil. To remedy the 
abuses of legislation, before we annihilate the 
propensities by which they are produced, is to 
suppose that by taking away the effect the 
cause will cease to operate. But the efficacy 
of this system depends entirely on the prose- 
lytism of individuals, and grounds its merits, as 
a benefit to the community, upon the total 
change of the dietetic habits in its membe:^. 
It proceeds securely from a number of particit- 
lar cases to one that is universal, and has this 
advantage over the contrary mode, that one 
error does not invalidate all that has gone be- 
fore. 

Let not too much, however, be expected from 
this system. The healthiest among us is not 
exempt from hereditary disease. The most 
symmetrical, athletic, and long-lived is a being 
inexpressibly inferior to what he would have 
been, had not the unnatural habits of his ances- 
tors accumulated for him a certain portion of 
malady and deformity. In the most perfect 
specimen of civilized man something is still found 
wanting by the physiological critic. Can a re- 
turn to Nature, then, instantaneously eradicate 

1 It has come under the author's experience, that 
some of the workmen on an embankment in North 
Wales, who, in consequence of the inability of the 
proprietor to pay them, seldom received their wages, 
have supported large families by cultivating small spots 
of sterile ground by moonlight. In the notes to Pratt's 



predispositions that have been slowly taking 
root in the silence of innuinerable ages ? Indu- 
bitably not. All that I contend for is, that 
from the moment of the relinquishing all un- 
natural habits no new disease is generated ; 
and that the predisposition to hereditary mala- 
dies gradually perishes for want of its accus- 
tomed supply. In cases of consumption, can- 
cer, gout, asthma, and scrofula, such is the 
invariable tendency of a diet of vegetables and 
pure water. 

Those who may be induced by these remarks 
to give the vegetable system a fair trial, should, 
in the first place, date the commencement of 
their practice from the moment of their convic- 
tion. All depei^ds upon breaking through a 
pernicious habit resolutely and at once. Dr. 
Trotter '^ asserts that no drunkard was ever re» 
formed by gradually relinquishing his dram. 
Animal flesh in its effects on the human stomach 
is analogous to a dram. It is similar in the 
kind, though differing in the degree, of its 
operation. The proselyte to a pure diet must 
be warned to expect a temporary diminution 
of muscular strength. The subtraction of a 
powerful stimulus will suffice to account for 
this event. But it is only temporary and is 
succeeded by an equable capability for exertion 
isLV surpassing his former various and fluctu- 
ating strength. Above all, he will acquire an 
easiness of breathing, by Avhich such exertion is 
performed, with a remarkable exemption from 
that painful and difficult panting now felt by 
almost every one after hastily climbing an 
ordinary mountain. He will be equally capable 
of bodily exertion or mental application after 
as before his simple meal. He will feel none 
of the narcotic effects of ordinary diet. Irrita- 
bility, the direct consequence of exhausting 
stimuli, would yield to the power of natural 
and tranquil impulses. He will no longer pine 
under the lethargy of ennui, that unconquerable 
weariness of life, more to be dreaded than 
death itself. He will escape the epidemic mad- 
ness which broods over its own injurious notions 
of the Deity and ' realizes the hell that priests 
and beldams feign.' Every man forms as it 
were his god from his own character ; to the 
divinity of one of simple habits no offering 
would be more acceptable than the happiness 
of his creatures. He would be incapable of 
hating or persecuting others for the love of God. 
He will find, moreover, a system of simple diet 
to be a system of perfect epicurism. He will 
no longer be incessantly occupied in blunting 
and destroying those organs from which he ex- 
pects his gratification. The pleasures of taste to 
be derived from a dinner of potatoes, beans, peas, 
turnips, lettuces, with a dessert of apples, goose- 
berries, strawberries, currants, raspberries, and, 
in winter, oranges, apples, and pears, is far 

Poem, Bread or the Poor, is an account of an indus- 
trious laborer who by working in a small garden before 
and after his day's task attained to an enviable state ol 
independence. 
2 See Trotter on The Nervous Temperament. 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



613 



g^reater than is supposed. Those who wait 
until they can eat this plain fare with the sauce 
of appetite will scarcely join with the hypo- 
critical sensualist at a lord-mayor's feast, who 
declaims against the pleasures of the table. 
Solomon kept a thousand concubines, and owned 
in despair that all was vanity. The man whose 
happiness is constituted by the society of one 
amiable woman would find some difficulty in 
sympathizing with the disappointment of this 
venerable debauchee. 

1 address myself not only to the young en- 
thusiast, the ardent devotee of truth and virtue, 
the pure and passionate moralist yet unvitiated 
by the contagion of the world. He will em- 
brace a pure system, from its abstract truth, 
its beaxity, its simplicity and its promise of 
wide-extended benefit ; unless custom has turned 
poison into food, he will hate the brutal plea- 
sures of the chase by instinct ; it will be a con- 
templation full of horror and disappointment 
to his mind that beings capable of the gentlest 
and most admirable sympathies should take de- 
light in the death-pangs and last convulsions of 
dying animals. The elderly man, whose youth 
has been poisoned by intemperance, or who has 
lived with apparent moderation and is afflicted 
with a variety of painful maladies, would find 
his account in a beneficial change produced 
without the risk of poisonous medicines. The 
mother, to whom the perpetual restlessness of 
disease and unaccountable deaths incident to 
her children are the causes of incurable unhappi- 
ness, would on this diet experience the satisfac- 
tion of beholding their perpetual healths and 
natural playfulness. 1 The most valuable lives 
are daily destroyed by diseases that it is dan- 
gerous to palliate and impossible to cure by 
medicine. How much longer will man continue 
to pimp for the gluttony of death, his m.ost in- 
sidious, implacable and eternal foe ? 

[Four brief extracts from Plutarch, ^epl a-ap- 
Ko4>ayCa<;, are here omitted, by advice of the 
general editor.] 

Notes and Illustrations 

For the sources of Queen Mab, beyond those 
indicated in Shelley's notes, the student should 
consult the Latin authors ; Volney's Ruins 
suggested the framework. The text presents 
few difficulties. Mrs. Shelley made a few 
changes in the interest of grammar, and Ros- 
setti increased their number and added other 
changes in the interest of what he conceived to 
be Shelley's sense. Some of these grammatical 
corrections are unnecessary, and those in the 
sense are usually arbitrary'. The most impor- 
tant points are the following : 

1 See Mr. Newton's book. His children are the most 
beautiful and healthy creatures it is possible to con- 
ceive ; the girls are perfect models for a sculptor ; their 
dispositions are also the most gentle and conciliating ; 
the judicious treatment, which they experience in 
other points, may be a correlative cause of this. In the 
first five years of their life, of 18,000 children that are 
born 7500 die of various diseases ; and how many more 
of those that survive are not rendered miserable by 



Page 10. Line 151. Rossetti reads As for 
Who. 

Page 13. Line 115. Rossetti reads sanctify. 

Line 140. Dowden accepts Tutin's conjecture 
in punctuation, reading a colon after element 
and deleting the period after remained in the 
next line. 

Page 14. Line 176. All editors follow Mrs. 
Shelley in reading secure. 

Page 15. Line 9. The reading of the text is 
Rossetti's, the original having a period after 
X)romise. 

Page 18. Line 219. Rossetti reads his for its. 

Page 25. Line 56. Rossetti reads Shows. 

Page 27. Line 182. Rossetti reads his for 
their. 

Page 28. Line 205. Shelley in quoting the 
line in his Notes reads Dawns ior Draws, which 
Rossetti adopts. 

Page 30. Line 139. Rossetti reads future for 
past. 

Page 31. Alastor. 

This poem has been examined in a more 
scholarly way than any other of Shelley's longer 
works. Dr. Richard Ackermann having made 
it in part the subject of an inaugural disserta- 
tion, Quellen, Vorbilder, Stoffezu Shelley'' s Poeti- 
schen Werke/i, I. Alastor, etc. (Erlangen & Leip- 
zig, 1890), and Prof. Al. Beljame having transla- 
ted and edited it, with elaborate notes, Alastor, 
ou le genie de la solitude (Paris, 1895). Dr. Acker- 
mann traces the influence of Wordsworth and 
Coleridge in the special romantic features of 
the nature-handling, vision element, and what 
might be called the psychology of the poem ; 
and also that of Southey and Landor in some of 
the Oriental coloring and detail of the narra- 
tive ; but, like Brandl in his Life of Coleridge, 
he pushes the theory of direct obligation too 
far, inasmuch as what is common in subject- 
matter and spontaneous to the method of any 
poetic period or group cannot fairly be regarded 
as peculiar to the originality of even its earliest 
members. Professor Beljame does not fall intc 
this error, and gives illustrative parallelisms of 
phrase and image merely as such unless the bor- 
rowing is clear. The versification and diction 
recall Coleridge and Wordsworth in their most 
musical blank verse, but except in a few pas- 
sages (lines 46-49, 482-485, 718-720) the rhythm 
has distinctly Shelley's rapid and peculiar mod- 
ulation. The substance of the poem, however, 
is variously embedded in Shelley's literary stud- 
ies and in his actual observatien of nature, 
while the feeling of the whole is a personal 
mood. It is customary to regard Shelley's 
landscape as unreal ; but, though it is imagina- 
tive, it contains elements of actuality, tran- 
scripts of scenes as witnessed by him, to a far 

maladies not immediately mortal ? Tlie quality and 
quantity of a woman's milk are materially injured by 
the use of dead flesh. In an island near Iceland, where 
no vegetables are to be got, the children invariably die 
of tetanus before they are three weeks old, and the 
population is supplied from the mainland. — Sir G. 
Mackenzie's History of Iceland. See. also, Emile, 
chap. i. pp. 53, 54, 5fi. 



6i4 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



greater extent than has ever been acknow- 
ledged ; In the present poem, his own river- 
navigation, his life in Wales and travels abroad, 
as well as the forest at Windsor, have left 
direct traces, as Dr, Ackerniann especially re- 
marks. Shelley himself mentions his opportu- 
nities for observation as among his qualifications 
for poetry, in the preface to Thk Revolt of 
Islam. The notes that follow ascribe to each 
commentator what seems to be his own. The 
meaning of the title and its source are given in 
the head-notes. The motto is from the first 
chapter of the third book of St. Augustine's 
Confessions, and the full text is given by Bel- 
jame : Veni Carthaginem ; et circurastrepebat 
me undique sartago flagitiosorum amorum. 
Nondum araabam, et amare amabam, et secre- 
tiore indigentia oderara me minus indigentem. 
Quferebam quod amarem, amans amare, et 
oderam securitatem et viam sine museipulis. 

Line 1. Beljame happily compares the invo- 
cation in Ben Jonson's Cynthia's Revels, V. 2, 
which is identical in structure. The substance, 
or feeling for nature, is Wordsworthian ; com- 
pare, for example, Influence of natural objects. 
Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, 
and Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-Tree. 

3. Natural piety, an example of Shelley's 
direct borrowings of phrase from Wordsworth 
(My heart leaps up), of which others occur be- 
low, — obstinate questionings, line 26 (Ode on In- 
timations of Immortality, IX. 13, and too deep for 
tears, line 713 (the same, XI. 17). 

13. Ackerniann compares Wordsworth, The 
Excursion, II. 41-47, but the humanitarian feel- 
ing toward animal life belongs to the period, 
and is a fundamental source of Shelley's inspi- 
ration. 

20-29. Compare Hymn to Intellectual 
Beauty, V. 

30. Brandl {Life of Coleridge, 190) compares 
the situation with Coleridge's Frost at Midnight, 
but I can see in the two only a parallelism of 
the romantic temperament and method. 

38. Beljame cites the inscription of the veiled 
Isis from Volney, Les Ruines : Je suis tout ce 
qui a dt^, tout ce qui est, tout ce qui sera, et nul 
mortel n'a lev^ mon voile. 

54. Waste wilderness. Forraan quotes Blake 
for the phrase, and Beljame follows him, but 
in this as in other instances the attempt to tie 
Shelley to Blake fails. Had he known Blake's 
works he would have shown clearer evidences 
of it. The present phrase is, of course, Mil- 
ton's, Paradise Regained, I. 7. 

' And Eden raised in the waste wilderness.' 

83. Volcano, -^tna. 

85. Bitumen lakes. Beljame identifies these 
with the Dead Sea, and notes Southey's descrip- 
tion of Aifs bitumen-lake, Thalaba, V. 22. It 
seems as likely that Shelley's sole source is 
Southey, and that he had no particular local 
reference. 

87-^)4. Beljame supposes that Shelley here 
blends in one deseription the marvels of the two 
isl^S Antiparos and Milo, one for its stalactite 



grotto, the other for its sulphurous exhalations. 
The grotto had been recently described by 
Leake, Travels in Northern Greece, 1806, and 
Clarke, Travels in Various Countries, etc., 1814. 
From some such source Shelley may have de- 
rived the idea, but his poetic description is 
heightened to the point of fantasy and retains 
very little of mere geography. Compare Cole- 
ridge, A Tombless Epitaph, 28-32 ; also line 400, 
note. 

100-106. Ackermann compares Landor, 
Gebir, II. 108: 

* And as he passes on, the little liinds 
That shake for bristly herds the foodful bough 
Wonder, stand still, gaze, and trip satisfied; 
Pleased more if chestnut, out of prickly husk, 
Shot from the sandal, roll along the glade.' 

108. The background of the following pas- 
sage appears to be, as Beljame suggests, Vol- 
ney's Les Ruines, from the first four chapters 
of which he quotes to show a general sympathy, 
and also analogies of detail. The pilgrim lit- 
erature, which both Volney and Chateaubri- 
and {Rene, also cited, but inconclusively) illus- 
trate, may well include Alastor as among its 
kindred. 

119. The Zodiac'^ s braztn mystery, the Zodiac 
of the temple of Denderah in Upper Egypt. 
Beljame refers to Volney, Les Ruines, XXII., 
note. It is now in the Biblioth^que Nationale 
at Paris. 

120. Mute, written just before Champollion's 
labors, as Beljame notes. 

129. Arab maiden. Ackermann derives the 
character from Thalaba'' s Oneiza, as also the 
veiled maid below (line 151), and compares the 
description of the latter from point to point 
with that in Thalaba, III. 24, 25. The parallel 
is somewhat forced, as becomes more evident on 
examination. The lines 161-162 have as the 
corresponding passage in Thalaba : 

' Oh ! even with such a look as fables say 
The Mother Ostrich fixes on her egg, 

Till that intense affection 

Kindle its light of life, — 
Even in such deep and breathless tenderness 
Oneiza's soul is centred on the youth.' 

So, too, in the alleged parallelism for lines 
167, 168, and 175, 176, we find in Thalaba 

' for a brother's eye 
Were her long fingers tinged, 
As when she trimmed the lamp. 
And through the veins and delicate skin 
The light shone rosy ; ' 

that is, as a long note shows, being ' tinged with 
henna ' so as to make the fingers seem in some 
instances ' branches of transparent red coral.' 
Shelley's meaning is far different, and is un- 
likely to be in any way connected in its origin 
with a recollection of Southey, in either of these 
two passages, though in introducing the Arab 
maiden he would naturally recall Oneiza. The 
veiled maid is, however, not an Arabian, but 
the spirit of the ideal. 

140-144. The backgroimd of the Poet's wan- 
dering seems to be found in Arrian's Expedi- 
tion of Alexander y and possibly similar passages 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



6"5 



in Quintus Curtius and Dion Cassius. The 
wild Carmanian waste is the Desert of Kernian ; 
the aerial mountains are the Hindoo Koosh, or 
Indian Caucasus, where Arrian wrongly places 
the sources of the Indus and Oxus. 

145. The vale of Cashmire, the earthly para- 
dise of that name, often mentioned in poetry. 
The particular descriptions given by Shelley, 
both here in the place of the vision, and later in 
the glen of the Caspian Caucasus, seem to me to 
recall the scenery and atmosphere of Miss Owen- 
son's (Lady Morgan) The Missionary, a romance 
which Shelley read in 1811. See note on line 
400. 

161. Rossetti reads Himself ior Herself in his 
first edition, and was defended by James Thom- 
son, but no other editor has adopted the conjec- 
ture, and Rossetti himself has restored the 
original reading not without some apologetic 
protest. 

177. Woven wind, the ventum textilem of the 
ancients, and also perhaps with a recollection 
of the transparent veils of Thalaha, VI. 26, 
note. For the development of the structure 
of the whole vision here given (lines 149-191) 
compare the passage in the preface where Shel- 
ley states the elements of his conception in 
prose. 

204. See note on line 129. This vision is the 
Alastor or evil genius, the spirit of solitude, the 
embodiment of all the responses to his own na- 
ture which the Poet lacked through his separa- 
tion from society, and was sent by ' the spirit 
of sweet human love ' to him ' who had 
spurned her choicest gifts ' by his self -isolation ; 
it was sent, as an Avenger, and leads or drives 
him on in search of its own phantasm till he dies. 
The folly of devotion to the idealizing faculty 
apart from human life seems to be the moral of 
the allegory, which most critics have found a 
dark one ; but the treatment of the Poet is so 
sympathetic, notwithstanding the latter's error, 
and the presentation of the Destroyer in the 
shape of the visionary maid is so alluring, that 
the reader forgets the didactic intent of the 
fable, and sees only an adumbration of the life 
of Shelley as seen by himself in the clairvoy- 
ance of genius, and consciously seen by him as a 
fate which he would avoid by mingling sympa- 
thetically with the life of men. If, as Dowden 
says, the poem be ' in its inmost sense a plead- 
ing on behalf of human love,' shown by the fate 
of those who reject it, it is also not without a 
tragic sense of the pity of that fate in those in 
whose life such a rejection is rather the isola- 
tion of a noble nature and the result less of 
choice than of temperament and circumstance. 
Compare Shelley's comment in the preface. 

210. Compare ^schylus, Agamemnon, 415. 

211-219. The union of Sleep and Death in 
Shelley's poetry is a fixed idea ; compare in 
this poem lines 293, 368. The use of water- 
reflections as a detail is also constant, and is re- 
peated below no less than five times, lines 385, 
408, 459, 470, 501. The tenacity with which 
Shelley's mind clings to its images is charac- 
teristic, and shows intensity of application 



rather than poverty of material, in a young 
writer ; not only in Alastor are there some of 
his images permanent in his verse, suoh as 
Ahasuerus, the serpent, and the boat, but in- 
stances of pure repetition frequently occur, as 
above ; compare, below, the alchemist, 31, 682, 
the bird and snake, 227, 325, the lyre, 42, 667, the 
cloud, 663, 687. 

219. Conducts, Rossetti thus corrects the ori- 
ginal reading, conduct, which is, however, re- 
tained by all other editors. Shelley doubtless 
wrote conduct, the verb being atti'acted into the 
plural by the number of details mentioned in 
connection with vault ; other explanations, on 
the ground of does understood, in one or another 
way, are only ingenious excuses ; the structure 
of the group of questions is so continuous that 
it seems best to make the change. 

227. Compare The Revolt of Islam, I. 
viii.-xiv. 

240. Aornos, 'identified by General Abbott 
in 1854 as Mount Mahabunn near the right bank 
of the Indus about sixty miles above its con- 
fluence with the Cabul,' Chinnock, Arrian'' s 
Anabasis, 237, note. Petra, identified as the 
Sogdian rock (Arrian, IV. 18) ; for the name 
Beljame quotes Quintus Curtius, VIII. 11 ; Una 
erat Petra. 

242. Balk, Bactria was the ancient name. 

242-244. It was Caracallus who violated the 
Parthian royal tombs and scattered the dust of 
the kings to the four winds. Beljame gives the 
reference Dion Cassius, LXXVIII. 1. 

262-267. Ackermann and Beljame trace the 
detail to Thalaba, VIII. 1 and IX. 17, Shelley 
having united the two in one image. 

272. Chorasnnan shore, properly the Aral Sea, 
but Shelley apparently intends the Caspian 
Sea. 

299. Shallop, the detail is from Thalaba, XI. 
31, as Ackermann remarks, as is the general 
conception of the voyage on the underground 
river. The opening passage is as follows : 

' A little boat there lay, 
Without an oar, without a sail, 
One only seat it had, one seat.' 

Compare also the boat of The Witch of 
Atlas. 

337-339. Beljame compares the same image 
in A Summer Evening Churchyard, but it 
is used most memorably in To Night : 

' Bind with thy hair the eyes of Day, 
Kiss her till she be wearied out.' 

349. Other editors retain the original read- 
ing of a period after ocean ; but Rossetti 
changed this to a semicolon and dash, whicl 
seems justifiable where no pretence is made oi 
reproducing Shelley's punctuation. 

353. Caucasus, the Caspian Caucasus. 

376. The cascade, like the underground voy- 
age, is from Thalaba, VII. 6, quoted by Acker- 
mann: 

' And lo ! where raving o'er a hollow course 
The ever flowing flood 
Foams in a thousand whirlpools ! Then adown 
The perforated rock 



6i6 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



Plunge the whole waters : so precipitous, 

So fathomless a fall, 
That their earth-shaking roar came deadened up 

Like subterranean thunder.' 

Aekermann also recalls the river in Kubla 
Khan. 

400. The following extracts, from Miss Owen- 
son's The Missionary, seem apposite here : 

' Surrounded by those mighty mountains 
whose summits appear tranquil and luminous 
above the regions of cloud which float on their 
brow, whose grotesque forms are brightened 
by innumerable rills, and dashed by foaming 
torrents, the valley of Cashmire presented to 
the wandering eye scenes of picturesque and 
glowing beauty, whose character varied with 
each succeeding hour. ... It was evening 
when the niissionary reached the base of a lofty 
mountain, which seemed a monument of the 
first day of creation. It was a solemn and se- 
questered spot, where an eternal spring seemed 
to reign, and which looked like the cradle of 
infant Nature, when she first awoke in all her 
primaeval bloom of beauty. It was a glen 
screened by a mighty mass of rocks, over whose 
bold fantastic forms and variegated hues dashed 
the silvery foam of the mountain torrent, fling- 
ing its dewy sprays around. . . . He proceeded 
through a path which from the long cusa-grass 
matted over it and the entangled creepers of 
the parasite plants, seemed to have been rarely 
if ever explored. The trees, thick and um- 
brageous, w^ere wedded in their towering 
branches above his head, and knitted in their 
spreading roots beneath his feet. The sound 
of a cascade became his sole guide through the 
leafy labyrinth. He at last reached the pile of 
rocks whence the torrent flowed, pouring its 
tributary flood into a broad river. . . . Before 
the altar appeared a human form, if human it 
might be called, which stood so bright and so 
ethereal in its look that it seemed but a tran- 
sient incorporation of the brilliant mists of the 
morning ; so light and so aspiring in its atti- 
tude that it appeared already ascending from 
the earth it scarcely touched to mingle with its 
kindred air. The resplendent locks of the 
seeming sprite were enwreathed with beams, 
and sparkled with the waters of the holy stream 
whence it appeared recently to have emerged.' 
(Chap.VI.) 

' Not a sound disturbed the mystic silence, 
save the low murmurs of a gushing spring, which 
fell with more than mortal music from a mossy 
cliff, sparkling among the matted roots of over- 
hanging trees, and gliding, like liquid silver, be- 
neath the network of the parasite plants. The 
flowers of the mangosteen gave to the fresh air 
a balmy fragrance. The mighty rocks of the 
Pagoda, which rose behind in endless perspec- 
tive, scaling the heavens, which seemed to re- 
pose upon their summits, lent the strong relief 
of their deep shadows to the softened twilight 
of the foreground.' (Chap. XII.) 

The landscape of the vale of Cashmire as here 
described is, in effect, the same as that of the 
glen in A t.astok. and in the figure of Luxima 



there is something sympathetic, at least, with 
the veiled maid of the vision. In Hilarion (the 
missionary) there is also something sympathetic 
with the Poet of the poem, as he has rejected 
love, and now suffers the penalty of a great 
passion, doomed necessarily to a tragic conclu- 
sion, under influences of solitude and nature. 
(See chap. IX., where his psychological charac- 
ter is developed : ' he resembled the enthusiast 
of experimental philosophy who shuts out the 
light and breath of heaven to inhale an arti- 
ficial atmosphere and enjoy an ideal exist- 
ence.') It is interesting to observe also the 
description of the subterranean ca\e, with sta^ 
lactite formation, lit by blue subterraneous 
fire, — the temple ' most ancient and celebrated 
in India, after that of Elephanta ' (chap. XII.), 
See, also, for other traces of this romance ib 
Shelley's work, the notes on The Revoli- 
OF Islam, XII., and The Indian Serenade. 

421, 422. Beljame quotes from Mrs. Shelley's 
Journal, August, 1814, in Dowden's Life of 
Shelley, ' At No6 [Nouaille ?] — in a noontide of 
intense heat — whilst our postilion waited, we 
walked into the forest of pines ; it was a scene 
of enchantment, where every sound and sight 
contributed to charm. Our mossy seat in the 
deepest recesses of the wood was inclosed from 
the world by an impenetrable veil.' 

431-438. Aekermann compares Scott, BoJceby, 
IV. 3 ; but there are many forest descriptions 
in English verse as similar, the original of all 
in this style being Milton's Paradise Lost, IV. 

451-454. Aekermann here again seeks the 
original detail in Thalaba, VI. 22 : 

' And oh ! what odours the voluptuous vale 
Scatters from jasmine boivers. 
From yon rose wilderness, 
From clustered henna, and from orange groves 
That with such perfumes fill the breeze.' 

So definite an origin for general properties seema 
to me most xinlikely. 

454-456. Beljame compares A Summer Even- 
ing Churchyard, V. 5, 6. 

479. Spirit, apparently an embodiment of 
Nature evoked by and reflecting the mood of 
death-melancholy in the Poet ; not the spirit of 
the vision which he seeks, which is ' the light 
that shone within his soul ' (lines 492, 493), but 
it may also be regarded as a later incarnation 
of the latter. 

502-514. Aekermann compares the very sim- 
ilar though more diffuse passage in Words- 
worth, The Excursion, III. 967-991. 

543-548. Editors and commentators have 
struggled to extract the precise meaning fronx 
these lines, but without establishing any likely 
emendation. Miss Blind proposes inclosed for 
disclosed ; Forman suggests amidst precipicea 
for its precipice ; Madox Brown guesses Hid for 
Mid ; ' E. S.' would read their preci-pice for its ; 
Swinburne thinks a verse has been dropped, and 
an anonymous writer conjectures that the lost 
verse may be represented by inserting after 547 

' A cataract descending with wild roar.' 
Rossetti, after some ineffectual wanderioggi 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



6ii 



i^turned to the original text, which Dowden also 
sustains. The interpretation, however, remains 
different, Rossetti taking' precipice as the sub- 
ject of disclosed used for disclosed itself^ and 
Powdcn taking which as the subject of dis- 
closed with gulfs and caves as its object, and its 
precipice obscuring the ravine as parenthetical. 
Brooke also retains the text, and takes its as 
equivalent to its own. The simplest explana- 
tion where all are awkward is to consider the 
clause beginning and its precipjice as parallel 
with the earlier half beginning now rose rocks, 
and the sense briefly would be : the rocks rose 
in the evening light, and also the precipice rose 
(shadowing the ravine below), disclosed above 
in the same light. I take p)recipice as subject 
to rose understood and disclosed as a participle ; 
its is the same as in 542, 543, i. e., the loud 
streams in 550. If this is rejected I should pre- 
fer to take which as the subject of disclosed and 
precipice as its object. To take precipice as the 
subject of disclosed with gulfs and caves as its 
object, involves a construction of line 548 so 
forced as to amount in my mind to impossi- 
bility. 

602-605. Ackermann quotes from Mrs. Shel- 
ley's Journal (Dowden's Life of Shelley) : ' The 
evening was most beautiful ; the horned moon 
hung in the light of sunset, which threw a glow 
of unusual depth of redness above the piny 
mountains and the dark deep valleys. . . . The 
moon becomes yellow, and hangs close to the 
"woody horizon.' 

66S-671. The passage has been somewhat 
discussed, but Brooke's note settles the mean- 
ing easily : ' It is quite in Shelley's manner . . . 
to go back and bring together his illustrations. 
Here the poet's frame is a lute, a bright stream, 
a dream of youth. The lute is still, the stream is 
dark and dry, the dream is unremembered.' The 
practice is common to English poetry from the 
early days. Compare Epipsychidion, 73-75. 

677. The reference is to Ahasuerus, the wan- 
dering Jew. Compare Queen Mab. VI. and 
Shelley's Notes on the passage. The char- 
acter again appears in Hellas. 

Pf^e 43. The Revolt of Islam. 

The text was made from the sheets of Laon 
and Cythna by the insertion of 26 cancel-leaves. 
The copy upon which Shelley worked in recom- 
posing is described at length by Forman, The 
Shelley Library, 83-86. The cancelled passages 
are as follows : 

Canto II. ixi. 1 

I had a little sister whose fair eyes 

XXV. 2 
To love in human life, this sister sweet 

Canto III. i. 1 
What thoughts had sway over my sister's slumber 

1.3 
As if they did ten thousand years outnumber 

Canto IV. XXX. 6 

And left it vacant — 't was her brother's face — 
Ctinto V. xlvii. 5 

I ImmL a brother once, but he is dead ! — 



Canto VI. xxiv. 8 
My own sweet sister looked, with joy did quail, 

xxxi. 6 
The common blood which ran within our frames, 

xxxix. 6-9 
With such close sympathies, for to each other 
Had high and solemn hopes, the gentle might 
Of earliest love, and all the thoughts which smother 
Cold Evil's power, now linked a sister and a brother. 

xl. 1 
And such is Nature's modesty, that those 
Canto VIII. iv. 9 
Dream ye that God thus builds for man in solitude 1 

v. 1. 
What then is God ? Ye mock yourselves and give 

vi. 1 
What then is God ? Some moonstruck sophist stood 

vi. 8, 9 
And that men say God has appointed Death 
On all who scorn his will to wreak immortal wrath. 

vii. 1-4 
Men say they have seen God, and heard from God, 

Or known from others who have known such things, 
And that his will is all our law, a rod 

To scourge us into slaves — that Priests and Kingr 

viii. 1 
And it is said, that God will punish wrong ; 

viii. 3, 4 
And his red liell's undying snakes among 

Will bind the wretch on whom he fixed a stain 

xiii. 3, 4 
For it is said God rules both high and low, 

And man is made the captive of his brother ; 

Canto IX. xiii. 8 
To curse the rebels. To their God did they 

xiv. 6 
By God, and Nature, and Necessity. 

XV. 4-7 
There was one teacher, and must ever be. 
They said, even God, who, the necessity 
Of rule and wrong had armed against mankind, 
His slave and his avenger there to be ; 

xviii. 3-6 

And Hell and Awe, which in the heart of man 
Is Vjrod itself ; the Priests its downfall knew, 
As day by day their altars lovelier grew, 

TiU they were left alone within the fane ; 

Canto X. xxii. 9 
On fire ! Almighty God his hell on earth bus spread 1 

xxvi. 7, 8 
Of their Almighty God, the armies wind 
In sad procession : each among the train. 

xxviii. 1 
O God Almighty ! thou alone hast power. 

xxxi. 1 
And Oromaze, and Christ, and Mahomet. 

xxxii. 1 
He was a Christian Priest from whom it came 

xxxii. 4 
To quell the rebel Atheists; a dire guest 

xxxii. 9 
To wreak his fear of God on vengeance on manknid 



6i8 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



xxxiv. 5, 6 

His cradled Idol, and the sacrifice 

Of God to God's own wrath — that Islam's creed 

XXXV. 9 

And thrones, which rest on faith in God, nigh over- 
turned. 

xxxix. 4 

Of God may be appeased.' He ceased, and they 

xl. 5 
With storms and shadows girt, sate God, alone, 

xliv. 9 

As ' hush ! hark ! Come they yet ? God, 
God, thine hour is near ! ' 

xlv. 8 
Men brought their atheist kindred to appease 

xlvii. 6 
The threshold of God's throne, and it was she ! 
Canto XI. xvi. 1 
Ye turn to God for aid in your distress ; 

XXV. 7 
Swear by your dreadful God.' — ' We swear, we 
swear ! ' 

Canto XII. X. 9 

Truly for self, thus thought that Christian Priest 
indeed, 

xi. 9 
A woman ? God has sent his other victim here. 

xii. G-8 

Will I stand up before God's golden throne. 

And cry, O Lord, to thee did I betray 
An Atheist ; but for me she would have known 

xxix. 4 
In torment and in fire have Atheists gone ; 

XXX. 4 
How Atheists and Republicans can die. 

In The Revolt of Islam, Shelley unites 
the landscape and sentiment of Alastor with 
the didactic teaching of Queen Mab. In po- 
litical and social philosophy he shows no intel- 
lectual advance, though it is noticeable that in 
the preface he disclaims responsibility for the 
views which have ' a dramatic propriety in 
reference to the character they are designed to 
elucidate' and are 'injurious to the character' 
of the ' benevolences ' of the Deity, and which he 
says are ' widely different ' from his own ; and 
it should be remarked that his expressions with 
respect to the immortality of the spirit are per- 
ceptibly more strong and favorable. It is rather 
on the poetic side that he shows development ; 
but here, too, the didactic element seems to me 
less evenly eloquent than in Queen Mab, and 
the imaginative element less pervaded with 
charm than in Alastor. Medwin says that 
Shelley told him that Keats and he agreed to 
attempt a long poem, and that Endymion and 
The Revolt of Islam were the fruit of this 
friendly rivalry. It can hardly be doubted that 
the deliberate ambition to compose a long work 
entered into the motive which prompted the 
poem. 



The new element which distinguishes I'hb 
Revolt of Islam from its predecessors is the 
fable, or story, which is made the vehicle of 
revolutionary doctrine. Shelley asserted that 
it was free from the intervention of the super- 
natural, except at the beginning and end ; but 
the machinery and incidents are of the roman- 
tic school, in the ' Gothic ' taste, in which his 
interest in fiction began, though here oriental- 
ized in sympathy with the literary taste of a 
time later than Monk Lewis and the young 
Scott. The tower-prison, the hermit's retreat, 
the cave of Laone with its underground en- 
trance, the ' Tartarean steed,' are all in the 
region of romance ; the human conduct of the 
characters — the yielding of the gaolers to the 
hermit's voice and looks, the protest of Laon in 
behalf of his foes and of the tyrant, the devo- 
tion of the child to the latter, the final surren- 
der of Laon — are all in the vein of pure moral 
sentimentality ; and though there are few such 
puerilities as the ' small knife ' and the eagle 
who could not be taught to ' bring ropes ' (and 
I should regard the original scheme by which 
Laon and Laone were made brother and sister 
merely as a puerility), yet tbe hold on reality, 
both in human nature at large and in the sense 
of the action of life, is of the feeble and tenuous 
sort that belongs to the fiction of the opening 
of the century, which gave to Shelley his idea 
of how and from what materials to construct a 
tale. Though he uses the Spenserian stanza, 
and read Spenser continuously while compos- 
ing, it is only the land of pseudo-romance and 
not Faeryland that he enters ; and, as he is 
dealing with political and social actualities, one 
cannot but be aware of an unreality in the 
movement of the poem, which Spenser himself 
did not escape when he touched historic ground. 
Not only the first Canto, in fact, is allegorical ; 
the whole tale is essentially allegory, and the 
sole realities in it are moral realities, of which 
the invincible power of love, its rightful sover- 
eignty and final victory, is the chief, shown also 
in reverse as the futility of force in all its forms, 
tyranny, law, custom, fraud, or crime. The 
characters are not much more vital than the 
fable is real, with the exception of Laon, who is 
a reincarnation of the youth in Alastor (or 
Shelley's spirit) touched more with mortal pas- 
sion and involved in human events ; Laone is 
the double of Laon, set forth somewhat as the 
spirit of the vision in Alastor, but made more 
actual through the facts of living ; the hermit 
is the wise old man ; the tyrant is the King of 
Queen Mab (a stage tyrant if ever there was 
one), and the child is merely a property and has 
no value except for sentimental effect. 

There are longueurs in the poem, and some of 
the causes of them are contained in these con 
siderations. A moral allegory with but onp, 
lesson, and that a lesson in revolution-raak^ 
ing, would require great powers of verieimili' 
tude, of invention and of attraction, to main- 
tain interest through twelve Cantos, and these 
qualities The Revolt of Islam does not poa- 
sess. The analysis of its construction, in stoi^ 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



619 



incident and character, brings out its least favor- 
able points ; it has, taken in the mass, great ex- 
cellences, especially power of description (both 
of scene and action) which in the best portions 
can only be described as splendor of descrip- 
tion ; it has also moral elevation, and enthu- 
siasm inexhaustible in spontaneity and glow ; 
and in several of the episodes there is a noble 
dignity of style. It is, it seems to me, the most 
uneven, the least completely one, of Shelley's 
works ; but if on the one hand it has affinities 
with the crudity of his prose fiction, it also ap- 
proaches on the other the visions of the Prome- 
theus Unbound ; and it contains the moral 
truth that burnt in his own heart. 

Page 47. An alexandrine. Rossetti points 
out three : IV. xxvii. 5 ; VIII. xxvii. 3 ; IX. 
xxxvi. 5. 

48. Dedication. The motto is from Chap- 
man's Byron's Conspiracy^ III. i. (end). 

49. To Mary. Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, 
Shelley's second wife. 

Stanza ii. 2. See Head-note for the circum- 
stances here put into verse. 

iii. 3 hour, the passage is regarded as auto- 
biographical, and faithfidly represents the at- 
mosphere of Shelley's school-days, and his own 
attitude toward the ' tyranny ' he then en- 
countered. Cf. Hymn to Intellectual 
Beauty, V. 

V. 9 thirst, the mood depicted in Alastor. 

vi. 3 despair., referring to the year before he 
met with Mary. 

vii. 5 burst, referring to the elopement of 
Mary with him, in disregard of his i larriage 
with Harriet. 

x. 4 referring to his fears of approaching 
death. 

9 Cf. The Sunset, 4. 

xii. 3 One, Mary Wollstonecraft, the author 
of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, and 
many other works, marked by independence 
and strength of mind, while her Letters to 
Imlay show deep feeling. A knowledge of her 
life is indispensable to a true understanding of 
Mary's union with Shelley. 

9 Sire, William Godwin, author of Political 
Justice and many other radical woi-ks and 
novels, from whom Shelley derived in youth 
much of his revolutionary principles and social 
views. 

xiii. 1 One voice, the voice of Truth. 

xiv. 4 his pture name, Shelley means any phi- 
lanthropist. 

Page 52. Canto I. vi. 8. The image may be 
from The Ancient Mariner, pt. iii. : but effects 
of sunset on the sea are frequent in the early 
poems and are reminiscences of Shelley's life 
on the west coast. Cf. below I. xv. 2 and 
Queen Mab, ii. 4 ; also, of the moon, Prince 
Athanase, II. 96. 

I. xxiii. 1. Cf. Alastor, 299, note. 

I. XXV. 5. The myth liere invented by Shelley 
to typify the conflict of the principles of Good 
and Evil as shown in man's social progress is 
the most imaginative and elaborate presentation 



of this ancient idea in modern literature. The 
identification of the Morning Star, changed into 
the snake, with the Spirit of Good, and of the 
Ruling Power with Evil, a not unparalleled re- 
vei'sal of Christian symbolism, anticipates the 
conception of the relation of Good and Evil in 
Prometheus Unbound. 

I. xxxvii. 7. Cf. Alastor, 129. The moods 
of Alastor frequently recur in the poem : e. g., 
below, xliii., xlv., Ivii. ; II, x., xi. ; IV. xxx. ; 
VI. xxviii. 

I. Hi. Cf . Queen Mab, ii. 22 et seq. 

Canto II. The opening stanzas of the Second 
Canto are characteristic of Shelley's autobio- 
graphical idealizations of his youth. Cf. the 
Dedicatory Stanzas above and the Hymn to 
Intellectual Beauty. 

II. xxxvi. 4 half of humankind, women. 

III. xxvii. 7 old man, the idealized figure of 
Dr. Lind, who also appears in Prince Atha- 
nase. 

V. xlix. 5 three shapes, the ' Giant ' is 
Equality, the ' Woman ' is Love, the ' third 
Image ' is Wisdom. Cf. below, stanza iii. 1, 2. 
The following Hymn is to be regarded as the 
earliest of Shelley's greater odes, and is the 
highest lyx-ical expression that his political and 
social theories by themselves ever reached. 

VII. xxxii. 6. The reference is to Pythagoras. 

A^'III. V. et seq. The speech of Laone is the 
most compact and full statement of Shelley's 
moral ideas in the time intermediate between 
Queen Mab and Prometheus Unbound, with 
both of which poems it may be closely com- 
pared ; eepecially the opening passage with 
Queen Mab, VII. ; stanzas xi.-xii. with Pro- 
metheus Unbound, IV. 554-578 ; and the 
whole with the same, III. iii. 130-204. 

IX. xxi.-xxv. An anticipation of the Ode to 
the West Wind. 

IX. xxxvi. 5. A translation of the famous 
epigram of Plato. 

X. xviii. 5 creaked. Cf. Coleridge, This 
Lime-Tree Bower my Prison, 74 Flew creeking, 
with note : ' Some months after I had written 
this line, it gave me pleasure to observe that 
Bartram had observed the same circumstance 
of the Savanna crane. " When these birds 
move their wings in flight, their strokes are 
slow, moderate and regular, and even when at 
a considerable distance or high above us, we 
plainly hear the quill feathers : their shafts and 
webs upon one another creek as the joints or 
working of a vessel in a tempestuous sea." ' 

XII. ix. 1. The situation is parallel to that in 
Miss Owenson's Missionary (see Alastor, 400, 
note). Hilarion, the priest-lover of Luxima, 
has been condemned by the Inquisition at Goa 
and stands at the pile to be burnt. The story 
continues : ' In this awful interval, while the 
presiding officers of death were preparing to 
bind their victim to the stake, a form scarcely 
human, darting with the velocity of lightning 
through the multitude, reached the foot of the 
pile, and stood before It in a grand and aspir- 
ing attitude ; the deep red flame of the alowly 
kindling fire shone through a transparent dn? 



620 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



pery which flowed in loose folds from the bosom 
of the seeming vision, and tinged with golden 
hues those long dishevelled tresses, which 
streamed like the rays of a meteor on the air ; 
thus bright and aerial as it stood, it looked 
like a spirit sent from heaven in the awful mo- 
ment of dissolution to cheer and to convey to the 
regions of the blessed, the soul which would soon 
arise pure from the ordeal of earthly suffering. 

' The sudden appearance of the singular phan- 
tom struck the imagination of the credulous and 
awed multitude with superstitious wonder. . . . 
Luxima, whose eyes and hands had been hith- 
erto raised to heaven, while she murmured the 
Gayatra, pronounced by the Indian women be- 
fore their voluntary immolation, now looked 
wildly round her, and catching a ghmpse of 
the Missionary's figure, through the waving of 
the flames, behind which he struggled in the 
hands of his guards, she shrieked, and in a 
voice scarcely human, exclaimed, "My beloved, 
I come ! Brahma receive and eternally unite 
our spirits ! " IShe sprang upon the pile.' The 
Missionary, ch. xvii. pp. 259, 260. The scene 
closes with a rising of the people, and the es- 
cape of the lovers. 

Page 136. Rosalind and Helen. This, 
the least significant of Shelley's longer poems, 
was little valued by himself. It is intended as 
a plea in behalf of natural love against conven- 
tions, and shows how experience of life might 
reconcile two friends who had been parted be- 
cause one of them had sinned against conven- 
tion. It contains Shelley's characteristic pre- 
possessions, such as the story of Fenici, the 
incident of brother and sister parted at the 
altar, and the cruelty of the husband's last 
will, and also his characteristic idealizations in 
the two stages of Lionel's life, the first in health 
another Laon, and the second in illness with 
traces of the Alastor type ; the moral senti- 
mentality of Lionel's power over the base and 
wicked and the delineations of febrile passion in 
one whose spirit only seems vital, are familiar 
from preceding work ; in the nature description 
there is nothing novel. 

Line 229. Rossetti points out the inconsist- 
ency of this with line 488. 

Line 272. Rossetti points out the inconsist- 
ency of this with line 406. 

Lines 405-410. The passage is defective, and 
unintelligible. Forman suggests while for which 
and had for and. Rossetti refers to Peacock's 
MS. letter to Oilier noting the imperfection in 
the proof. 

Line 764. The poem appears to be a personal 
l3a'ic of Shelley's. 

Line 894. Cf . To William Shelley, 1818. 

Line 1208. Forman conjectures which for 
whilst and omits had in the next line. The 
meaning is obvious, and its plainness is little 
helped by the change. 

Page 151. Julian AND Maddalo. The poem 
is the first in this style of verse, which Shelley 
made his own by the singular felicity of its com- 
bination of metrical beauty with familiar dic- 
tion and tone, and it stands by itself by virtue 



of the fact that his other work of this sort is 
fragmentary. The monologue of the madman 
gives evidenoe of dramatic power, and the power 
of description is matured. For the rest, the 
poem is most remarkable for the deeply felt 
pathetic sentiment, the bitterness of suffering 
in the wounded feelings, which pervades the 
madman's words. Mrs. Shelley's account of 
where the poem was wi'itten is interesting : 

' I Capuccini was a villa built on the site of 
a Capuchin convent, demolished when the 
French suppressed religious houses ; it was sit 
uated on the very overhanging brow of a low 
hill at the foot of a range of higher ones. The 
house was cheerful and pleasant ; a vine-trel- 
lised walk, a jjergola as it is called in Italian, 
led from the hall door to a summer-house at the 
end of the garden, which Shelley made his 
study, and in which he began the Prometheus ; 
and here also, as he mentions in a letter, he 
wrote Julian and Maddalo ; a slight ravine, 
with a road in its depth, divided the garden 
from the hill, on which stood the ruins of the 
ancient castle of Este, whose dark massive wall 
gave forth an echo, and from whose ruined 
crevices owls and bats flitted forth at night, as 
the crescent moon sunk behind the black and 
heavy battlements. We looked from the gar- 
den over the wide plain of Lombardy, bounded 
to the west by the far Apennines, while to the 
east the horizon was lost in misty distance. 
After the picturesque but limited view of 
mountain, ravine, and chestnut wood at the 
Baths of Lucca, there was something infinitely 
gratifying to the eye in the wide range of pro- 
spect commanded by our new abode.' 

Line 1. Shelley describes his rides with Byron 
in a letter to Mrs. Shelley, August 23, 1818: 
' He [Byron] took me in his gondola across the 
laguna to a long sandy island, which defends 
Venice from the Adriatic. When we disem- 
barked, we found his horses waiting for us, and 
we rode along the sands of the sea, talking. 
Our conversation consisted in histories of his 
wounded feelings, and questions as to ray af- 
fairs, and great professions of friendship and 
regard for me. He said that if he had been in 
England at the time of the Chancery affair, he 
would have moved heaven and earth to have 
prevented such a decision. We talked of liter- 
ary matters, his Fourth Canto [Childe Harold], 
which he says is very good, and indeed he re- 
peated some stanzas of great energy to me.' 

Line 40 poets, Milton, Paradise Lost, ii. 559. 

Line 99. The madhouse is on San Servolo, 
but Rossetti quotes Browning to the effect that 
the building described by Shelley was the peni- 
tentiary on San Clemente. Rossetti declines to 
decide the point. 

Line 143 child, Allegra. 

Page 160. Prometheus Unbound. This 
poem, as a lyrical drama dealing with the myth 
of Prometheus, has for its principal poetic 
source the Prometheus of ^Eschylus. Shelley 
wrote, ' It has no resemblance to the Greek 
drama. It is original ; ' and essentially the 
statement is true. The relation of Prometheus 



MOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



621 



to Jupiter, as a sufferer under tyranny because 
of his love of mankind, the scene of his torture 
on the mountain side over the sea, the attend- 
ance of sea nymphs in the chorus, the herald 
Mercury, the vulture, and the insistence on the 
violent elements of nature, earthquake, light- 
ning and whirlwind, in the imagery, are com- 
mon to both poems ; but Shelley by his treat- 
ment has so modified all these as to recreate 
them. The ethical motive of Shelley, his alle- 
gorical meanings, his metaphysical suggestions, 
the development of the old and introduction of 
new characters, the conduct of the action, the 
interludes of pastoral, music and landscape, 
the use of new imaginary beings neither human 
nor divine, and the conception of universal na- 
ture, totally transform the primitive ^schy- 
lean myth ; and in its place arises the most 
modern poem of the century by virtue of its 
being the climax of the Revolution, in imagina- 
tive literature, devoted to the ideal of demo- 
cracy as a moral force. The crude -^schylean 
matter may be easily traced in the following 
notes in detail. The interpretation of the mod- 
ern poem is more difficult, and may be studied 
in the essays of Rossetti in the Shelley Society 
Publications, Todhunter's A Study of Shelley, 
Thomson's Notes, in the Athenceum, 1881, and 
Miss Scudder's Shelley''s Prometheus Unbound, 
as well as in numerous biographies and essays. 
I am unable to follow these commentators in 
giving more precise meaning to the characters 
and the plot than is contained in Shelley's and 
Mrs. Shelley's exposition already cited in the 
Head-note to the poem, and the preface, sup- 
plemented by the statements of the text itself. 
Prometheus may be the ' Human Mind,' lone 
'Hope' and Panthea 'Faith,' and the Semi- 
choruses of Act II. sc. ii. may represent respec- 
tively the passage of ' Love and Faith [Asia 
and Panthea] through the sphere of the Senses 
... of the Emotions ... of the Reason and 
Will,' and so on ; but that Shelley had any 
conscious logic of this sort in his poem seems 
too uncertain to be asserted. The drama is an 
emanation of his imagination, working out his 
deepest sentiments and convictions in a form 
nearer to the power of music than language 
ever before achieved ; it is haunted by the 
presence of the inexpressible in the heart of its 
m^ost transcendent imagery ; and in all its 
moods and motions is far from the domain in 
"which the prose of articulated thought is dis- 
cerned through a veil of figured phrase. The 
intellectual skeleton, in any case, even were it 
discoverable, is not the soul of the poem. Cer- 
tain theories of Shelley, as to philosophical 
problems, are present in the verse ; but they 
control only instinctively, and not by deliberate 
thought, the structure of character, scene, 
event, and act. They are noted below. 

Page 165. Dramatis Personce. Prometheus, 
the Titan, bound to the icy precipice, suffers 
this punishment from Jupiter as a consequence 
of the gift of fire and other benefits to mankind. 
Jupiter is the ' supreme of living things,' of 
whom Prometheus says, ' I gave all he has,' 



and ' O'er all things but thyself I gave thee 
power, and my own will.' Pronietneus pos- 
sesses the secret ' which may transfer the scep- 
tre of wide heaven ' from Jupiter, and refuses 
to divulge it. The knowledge that the reign of 
Jupiter will end sustains him in his torture, 
which has now lasted for many centuries. Asia, 
a sea nymph, daughter of Oceanus, is the be- 
loved of Prometheus, and separated from him 
in India. Panthea is the messenger between 
the two ; lone is her companion ; both are sis- 
ters of Asia. Demogorgon is the child of Jupi- 
ter who overthrows his father, at the appointed 
time, as Jupiter had dethroned Saturn ; the 
foreknowledge of this is the secret of Prome- 
theus. The other persons of the drama have 
little or no part in the action, and are easily 
comprehended. The obvious allegorical mean- 
ing of these greater characters can be briefly 
stated. Prometheus is a type of mankind suf- 
fering under the oppression of the evil of the 
world. Jupiter is this incarnate tyranny con- 
ceived primarily in a broadly political rather 
than in any moral sense, the ' one name of 
many shapes ' already described in The Re- 
volt OF Islam. Asia is, in Mrs. Shelley's 
words, 'the same as Venus and Nature,' or 
essentially the Aphrodite of Lucretius human- 
ized by Shelley's imagination and recreated as 
the life of nature animated by the spirit of love. 
The separation of Prometheus from Asia dur- 
ing the reign of Jupiter typifies the discordance 
between man and nature due to the tyranny of 
convention, custom, institutions, laws, and all 
the arbitrary organization of society, — one of 
the cardinal ideas inherited by Shelley from 
eighteenth century thought. The fall of Jupi- 
ter, which is the abolition of human law, is fol- 
lowed by the triumph of love, in which man and 
nature are once more in accord ; this accord is 
presented doubly in the drama as the marriage 
of Prometheus, and the_ regeneration of the 
world in millennial happiness. For the inter- 
pretation of Demogorgon, Panthea, and the 
various spirits, see below. The references to 
^schylus are to Paley's third edition, London, 
1870. 

Page 165. Act I. Scene i. The landscape 
setting of the Act is ^sehylean, and borrows 
some details from the Greek, but as mountain 
scenery it is Alpine and directly studied from 
nature. Shelley's Journal, March 26, 1818, gives 
a special instance of it, describing Les Echelles : 
' The rocks, which cannot be less than a thou- 
sand feet in perpendicular height, sometimes 
overhang the road on each side, and almost shut 
out the sky. The scene is like that described 
in the Prometheus of ^schylus : vast rifts 
and caverns in the granite precipices ; wintry 
mountains with ice and snow above ; the loud 
sounds of unseen waters within the caverns, and 
walls of toppling rocks, only to be scaled as he 
describes, by the winged chariot of the ocean 
nymphs.' 

I. 2 One, Prometheus. 

I. 12. Cf . ^schylus, 32, 94. 

1.22. Cf . ^schylus, 21. 



622 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



I. 23. Cf . ^schylus, 98-100. 

I. 25-29. Cf . ^schylus, 88-92. 

I. 34. Cf. ^schylus, 1043. 

I. 45, 46. Cf. ^schylus, 24, 25. 

I. 58. The pity of Prometheus for Jupiter 
«ind his wish to recall the curse formerly pro- 
nounced mark the moral transformation of the 
character from that conceived by ^schylus. 
This is the point of departure from the ancient 
myth, which is here left behind. Shelley thus 
clothes Prometheus with the same ideal previ- 
ously depicted in Laon, — the spiritual power of 
high-minded and forgiving endurance of wrong, 
the opposition of love to force, the victory of 
the higher nature of man in its own occult and 
inherent right. It appears to me that this per- 
fecting of Prometheus through suffering, so 
that he lays aside his hate of Jupiter for pity, 
shown in his repentance for the curse and his 
withdrawal of it, is the initial point of the ac- 
tion of the drama and marks the appointed 
time for the overthrow of the tyrant. The ful- 
filment of the moral ideal in Prometheus is the 
true cause of the end of the reign of evil, though 
this is dramatically brought about by the in- 
strumentality of Demogorgon. 

In this opening speech, and in the remainder 
of the drama, it is unnecessary to point out the 
echoes of English poets. It is enough to observe 
generally, once for all, that Milton and Shake- 
speare have displaced Wordsworth and Cole- 
ridge as sources of phrase and tone, though they 
have not entirely excluded them, especially the 
latter ; just as Plato has displaced Godwin and 
the eighteenth century philosophers in the 
intellectual sphere, though here again without 
entirely excluding them. 

I. 74. The dramatic choruses constructed of 
responding voices, both in Shelley and in Byron, 
go back to the witch choruses of Macbeth ; but 
they may be more immediately derived from 
Coleridge's Fire^ Famine, and Slaughter. 

I. 132 whisper^ the ' inorganic voice ' of the 
earth. 

I. 137 And love^ i. e., dost love (Swinburne). 
Forman conjectures I love ; Rossetti, and Jove. 

I. 140. Cf. ^schylus, 321. 

I. 150 tongue, the earth has apparently two 
voices, that of the dialogue and the ' inorganic 
voice ' above, which is the same as ' the lan- 
guage of the dead ' above (cf. I. 183) and the 
tongue ' known only to those who die ' in this 
line. 

I. 165 et seq. Cf. ^schylus, 1064-1070, for 
parallel imagery ; but the passage recalls espe- 
cially the sorrow of Demeter after the rape of 
Persephone and the woes then visited on the 
earth in the classic myth. 

I. 192 et seq. Zoroaster. The story is not 
known to Zoroastrian literature. The concep- 
tion of the double world of shades and forms, 
with the reunion of the two after death, seems 
original with Shelley, suggested by the notion 
of Plato's world of ideas. 

I. 262 et seq. Cf . ^schylus, 1010-1017. 

I. 289 robe. The reference is to the shirt of 
Nessus. 



I. 296. Cf. ^schylus, 936-940. 

I. 328. The detail is borrowed from the ac- 
tion of Apollo in ^schylus, Eumenides, 170. 
The character of Mercury is developed by in- 
cluding in his mood the pity shown by Hy- 
phsestos in the Prometheus. The Furies are 
in character, description, and language, Shel- 
ley's creation. 

I. 345. The reterunce is to Dante, Infsv^o. 'nc. 

I. 354. Cf. iEschylus, 19, 20, 66. 

I. 376. Cf. ^schylus, 382. 

I. 386. Cf. ^schylus, 1014. 

I. 399. The sword of Damocles. 

I. 402. Cf. ^schylus, 958-960. 

I. 408. Cf. ^schylus, 52, 53. 

I. 416. Cf. ^schylus, 774-779. 

I. 451. The idea is Platonic, and frequent in 
Shelley. Cf., below, II. iv. 83 and Prince 
Athanase, II. 2. 

I. 458. Cf . ^schylus, 218 ; The Revolt of 
Islam, VIII. ix.-x., xxi. 

I. 471. The ethical doctrine that each sin 
brings its own penalty of necessity, and essen- 
tially is its own punishment, is involved in the 
image that the Furies are shapeless in them- 
selves. 

I. 484. The intimacy of remorse in the soul is 
partly indicated by the expressions used. The 
nature of the suffering brought by sin is most 
truly conceived and presented in what the 
Furies say of themselves throughout the scene. 
The idea, however, is confused by the addition 
of the element of the evil nature active within 
the soul and assailing it. The two notions are 
not incompatible, but the second has little per- 
tinence to Prometheus here. 

I. 490. The case illustrated, for example, in 
Tennyson's Lucretius. 

I. 547. The torture of Prometheus, as was 
indicated by the speeches of the Furies, ceases 
to be physically rendered, and becomes mental. 
He is shown two visions of the defeat of good, 
first the Crucifixion, second, the French Revo- 
lution ; the lesson the Furies draw is the folly 
of Prometheus in having opened the higher life 
for man, since it entails the greater misery the 
more he aspires, and is doomed at each supreme 
effort to increase rather than alleviate the state 
of man (cf. I. 595-597). The torture inflicted 
by the Furies, as well as the description of 
their methods in the abstract just commented 
on, gives an ethical reality to them which takes 
them out of the morals of the ancient world 
and transforms them into true shapes of modern 
imagination. 

I. 592. Cf. ^schylus, 710-712. 

I. 618. Cf. ^schylus, 759-760. 

I. 619-632. The state of mankind, as Shelley 
saw it. described in cold, blunt, hard terms, is 
the climax and summary of the torture Prome- 
theus suffers at the last moment ; but his pre- 
ference to feel such pain rather than be dull to 
it, and his continuance in faith that it shall end, 
combined with his lack of hatred or desire for 
vengeance, signalizes his perfection of soul utt- 
der experience. 

I. 641. Cf. ^schylus, 772. 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



623 



I. 660. Cf. ^schylus, 288, 289. 

I. 673. The torture-scene (with which, in the 
physical sense, the drama of ^Eschylus closes) 
being now over, the modern drama goes on to 
develop the regeneration of man, and first in- 
troduces this counter scene of the consolation 
of Prometheus by the spirits of the human 
mind, which inhabit thought ; the voices are 
severally those of Revolution, Self-Saerifice, 
Wisdom, and Poetry. 

I. 712 Between^ between arch and sea. 

I. 766 Shape, Love. 

I. 772. Cf. Plato, Symposium, 195 : ' For 
Homer says that the Goddess Calamity is deli- 
cate, and that her feet are tender. " Her feet 
are soft," he says, " for she treads not upon the 
ground, but makes her path upon the heads 
of men." ' (Shelley's translation.) The two 
spirits who sing the passage of Love followed by 
Ruin, present in poetical and intense imagery 
the one comprehensive and symbolic sorrow of 
the state of man : love is not denied, but its 
fruits are misery to mankind. The prophecy 
that ' begins and ends ' in Prometheus is that 
he shall destroy this death that follows in Love's 
track, of which the Crucifixion and the Revolu- 
tion have been taken as the great symbols, but 
similar ruin pervades all life acted on by love. 

I. 832. There is here the hint of philosophical 
idealism which makes nature's life dependent 
on man's consciousness ; nature Hves in his ap- 
prehension of and union with it. 

Page 178. Act II. i. Scene. The question 
of the time of the drama has been much com- 
mented upon, but to little effect. The scheme 
which regards the time as twelve hours, from 
midnight to high noon, is perhaps most satis- 
factory. The inconsistencies which conflict 
with such a theory are no greater than are 
usually to be found in Shelley's work ; and it is 
not probable that he considered the naatter care- 
fully. ' Morning ' at the beginning of this Act 
is the same as the dawn at the end of the pre- 
ceding Act ; and the journey of Asia and Pan- 
thea to the cave of Demogorgon is timeless ; it 
is dawn when they arrive. The phrase, II. v. 

10, ' The sun will rise not until noon ' is not 
to be taken literally, but only as an image of 
the amazement in heaven at the fall of Jupi- 
ter. Beyond that point the drama has no rela- 
tion with time whatsoever. 

The character of Panthea is wholly developed 
in this Act. She has no being of her own, but 
is the mystical medium of communication be- 
tween Prometheus and Asia ; to each she is the 
other. In Act 1. 824, she tells Prometheus that 
she never sleeps ' but when the shadow of thy 
spirit falls on her' [i. e., herself]. She is ad- 
dressed by Asia, II. i. 31, as wearing 'the 
shadow of that soul [Prometheus] by which I 
live ; ' she describes how that shadow falls upon 
her, and is made her being, in the dream, II. 
i. 71-82 ; and in her eyes, rather than through 
her words, Asia would read Prometheus' ' soul,' 

11. i. 110, and does behold him as if present, 
11. i. 119-126. On the other hand Prometheus 
rn the dream describes her as the shadow of 



Asia, II. i. 71, ' Whose shadow thou art,' and 
Panthea asks of Asia, II. i, 113, what she can 
see in her eyes except ' thine own fairest shadow 
imaged there.' Panthea describes the double 
relation in saying, 11. i. 50, that she is ' made 
the wind which fails beneath the music that I 
bear of thy most wordless converse,' and, II. 
i. 52, as ' dissolved into the sense with which 
love talks ; ' and Asia describes Panthea's 
words, II. iv. 39, as ' echoes ' of Prometheus. 
It has been suggested that Panthea, in these 
relations, is Faith in the Ideal, but it does not 
seem to me that there is any so precise mean- 
ing ; her function is purely emotional, bring- 
ing into apparent conjunction the disunited 
lovers. 

The character of Demogorgon, also, is suffi- 
ciently developed in this Act for comment. The 
name has been traced to Lactantius, and occurs 
in English in Spenser, Faerie Queene, I. v. 22, 
IV. ii. 47, and in Milton, Paradise Lost, II. 965. 
Shelley clothes it with a new personality. In 
Act III. i. 52, he describes himself as ' eter- 
nity.' His dwelling-place, before his ascent 
and after it, is in the Cave, which is what Shel- 
ley was accustomed to write of as the ' caves 
of unimagined being.' From it, II. iii. 4, ' the 
oracular vapor is hurled up ' which is the nur- 
ture of enthusiastic genius, — ' truth, virtue, 
love, genius, or joy, that maddening wine of 
life.' The spirit that abides there is, in its 
negative phase, II. iv. 5, 'ungazed upon and 
shapeless ; ' it can answer all questions, as in 
the colloquy with Asia, but a voice is wanting 
to express the things of eternity, II. iv. 116, 
'the deep truth is imageless,' and II. iv. 123, 
' of such truths each to itself must be the 
oracle.' The conception has points of contact 
with that of the soul of being in the Hymn to 
Intellectual Beauty, and with numerous 
other apprehensions of the divine element in 
Shelley's poetry. It is more abstract and gray, 
in this shape of the genius presiding even over 
Jupiter's fate, than usual, because a part of the 
cosmic idea it embodies is transferred to Asia 
in this drama, as the being in whom love kindles 
and through whom creation becomes beautiful ; 
Demogorgon is thus elemental in the highest 
degree, lying in a region back even of the great 
poetic conceptions of Love and Beauty, as well 
as of apparently Omnipotent Power, in the world 
of celestial time. To him, as the ultimate of 
being conceivable by man's imagination, the 
concluding chorus of the drama is fitly given. 

II. i. 71-87. Cf . Rosalind and Helen, 1028- 
1046. 

II. i. 117. Cf. V. 53, note. 

II. i. 140, written grief, the Ai, Ai, which 
the Greeks fancied they discerned in the color 
markings of the hyacinth. Cf . Adonais, xvi. 
5, note. 

II. i. 142. It is noticeable that the first 
dream belongs to Prometheus, and the second 
appears to be that of Asia. She recollects the 
dream, as her own. The double character of 
Panthea, as the mirror of both lovers, is thus 
preserved. 



624 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



II. i. 166. The Echo songs are of course 
Ariel songs. 

II. ii. 1. The commentators who describe 
this chorus as the journey of love and faith 
through experience, in sense, emotion, will, etc. 
(see Miss Scudder'' & Prometheus Unbound^ p. 151), 
seem to me over-subtle. The sequence from 
nature to emotion and impassioned thought 
belongs to many of Shelley's poems, and is his 
natural lyrical form ; in each of these acts, espe- 
cially I., II., and IV., it is exhibited on the 
grand scale, but in his minor poems it is usual. 
The significant part of the chorus is lines 41- 
63, where the stream of sound, an image so 
repeated as to be cardinal in the drama, is in- 
troduced, here as a symbol of the force impell- 
ing will (perhaps conceived as desire in love), 
controlling it. The manner of it, II. ii. 48-50, 
is after Plato, as in the Syinx)Osium and Phce- 
drus ; the imagery of the boat and the stream 
is a strange and subtle development of the voy- 
age images in Alastor and The Revolt of 
Islam. 

II. ii. 62 fatal mountain, that at which Asia 
and Panthea arrive in II. iii. 1. 

II. ii. 64. The Fauns are after the character 
of the Attendant Spirit in Milton's Comus. 

II. ii. 91 songs, cf. Virgil, Eclogues, VI. 31- 
42. Such Virgilian echoes are found, though 
rarely, in Shelley. 

II. iii. 40. The image is one of the few sub- 
lime images in English poetry. 

II. iii. 54. The first and third stanzas de- 
scribe the Cave of Demogorgon as the place of 
increate eternity or absolute being ; it is set 
forth necessarily by negatives, except in the at- 
tributes of universality and unity in II. iii. 80. 

II. iii. 94 meekness, i. e., the meekness of 
Prometheus in his mood toward Jupiter, as 
shown in Act I., and in his whole moral charac- 
ter as developed at the end of that Act. It is 
because of this change in Prometheus, as noted 
above, that now ' the Eternal, the Immortal ' 
(Demogorgon) ' must unloose through life's 
portal that Snake-like Doom ' (the Spirit of the 
Hour of Jupiter's overthrow), 'by that alone,' 
i. e., the inherent moral power of Prometheus' 
spiritual state. It should be recalled that Pro- 
metheus is mankind, to get the full force of the 
lesson enunciated. 

II. iv. 12. Rossetti and Swinburne conjec- 
ture that a line is missing. The former corrects 
when into at ; but this only avoids the difficulty. 
The sense is plain, and the text must be ac- 
cepted as corrupt. 

II. iy. 48. Cf. ^schylus, 232, 233. 

II. iv. 49 et seq. The speech is based on 
^sehylus, 205-262, 444-514, but is highly de- 
veloped, possibly with some obligation to Lu- 
cretius, Bk. V. 

II. iv. 83. Cf. I. 451, note. 

II. iv. 146. Cf. I. 471, note. 

II. V. 20. The story of the birth of Venus. 
The irradiation of Asia, as the spirit of love 
filling the world with created beauty (into 
which complex conception enter so many myth- 
ological and metaphysical strands from Lu- 



cretius, Plato, and antique legend) is the high- 
est point reached by Shelley in rendering the 
character dramatically, as the lyrics immedi- 
ately following ire the highest point reached in 
its lyrical expression. The lines II. iv. 40-47 
are the antithesis of I. 619-632. They are the 
abstract statement of love, as the former of 
hatred. The lyrics following are a highly im- 
aginative statement of love and parallel with I. 
764-780. 

II. V. 48. The lyric is an invocation of Asia 
as ' the light of life, shadow of beauty unbe- 
held ' (III. iii. 6) — the spirit presiding in crea- 
tion, the divine vivida vis, the invisible power 
making for beauty, through love, in the world 
of sensible experience. In the first two stanzas, 
Shelley presents the supernal brightness as half 
revealed in the breath and smile of life, but in- 
supportable, and again as burning through the 
beauty of nature, which is an atmosphere about 
it ; but in the third and fourth stanzas he re- 
turns to its invisibility, as a thing heard like 
music, as the source of all beauty of shape and 
all joy of soul, — but insupportable in these 
modes of knowledge and experience as in its 
half-visible forms. 

II. V. 53. Forman aptly quotes Shelley to 
Peacock, April 6, 1819 : ' The only inferior 
part [in the Roman beauties] are the eyes, 
which, though good and gentle, want the mazy 
depth of color behind color with which the in- 
tellectual women of England and Germany 
entangle the heart in soul-inspiring labyrinths.' 
Cf . i. 117 ; The Revolt of Islam, XII. v. 2. 

II. V. 72. The following lyric takes up the 
image of the boat and the stream from II. ii. 41- 
63 (cf . note), and elaborates it, the boat being 
the soul of Asia, driven on the song of the 
Singer ; the Singer and Asia are thus united 
spiritually in the song and guided musically 
on the mystic voyage backward through the 
forms of human life to the soul's preexistent 
eternity (reversing Wordsworth's Ode on the In-^ 
timations of Immortality) . Cf. To Constantia, 
Singing, and To One Singing, p. 488. 

Page 189. Act III. i. 40. Cf . Lucan, Phar- 
salia, ix. 723. 

III. i. 69. Jupiter acknowledges the real 
supremacy of the moral nature. 

III. i. 72. Cf. The Revolt or Islam, I. vi. 
et seq. 

III. ii. The scene is idyllic, not only by virtue 
of the calm classical figures of Apollo and 
Oceanus, but as containing the first of the mil- 
lennial descriptions which now recur to the end 
of the drama. 

III. ii. 46. Cf. The Revolt of Islam, II. 
xxix. 1. 

HI. iii. 10 Cave, the first of the caves which 
Shelley delighted to depict as refuges from the 
world. It is to be taken as an Italian element 
in his verse. 

III. iii. 15. The stalactite formations met 
with in Alastor. 

III. iii. 25 mutability, a constant and charac- 
teristic word and thought of Shelley. 

III. iii, 49-60. This aesthetic theory is purely 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



625 



Platonic. Cf. Plato, especially Symposium and 
Phcedrus. C£. Ode to Liberty, xvii, 9. 

III. iii 70 sAe//. Salt quotes from Hogg : 'Sir 
Guyon de Shelley, one of the most famous 
of the Paladins, carried about with him three 
conches. . . . When he made the third conch, 
the golden one, vocal, the law of God was 
immediately exalted, and the law of the devil 
annulled and abrogated wherever the po- 
tent sound reached. Was Shelley thinking of 
this golden conch when he described, in his 
g^eat poem, that mystic shell from which is 
sounded the trumpet-blast of universal free- 
dom ? ' 

III. iii. 91-93. The sympathy of Shelley with 
life in its humblest forms was almost Buddhistic 
in solicitude. Cf . below. III. iv. 36, or The 
Sensitive Plant, II. 41. 

III. iii. 111. Cf. I. 150. 

III. iii. 113. Cf. Sonnet, 'Lift not the 
painted veil.' 

III. iii. 124. The cavern where Prometheus 
was born, seemingly the same as in III. iii. 10, 
more developed in the description. 

Ill, iii. 171. This line, in connection with 
108-110, intimates a greater faith in immortal- 
ity than any previous passage of Shelley, but 
it is a shadowy intimation. Cf. IV. 536. The 
dead, throughout the drama, are described in 
the pagan spirit, and the lot of man, not exempt 
even in this millennium from ' chance and death 
and mutability,' is opposed to the lot of the im- 
mortals as at a pagan distance below them — 
the fate that Lucretius described. 

III. iv. The Spirit of the Earth now takes 
the place of the Earth in the drama. The form 
it wears is a characteristic Shelleyan concep- 
tion, belonging to his most unshared originality 
in creation. Cf. Prince Athanase, II. 106, 
note. 

HI. iv. 54 sound., the shell. 

III. iv. 76, 77. The ease with which all 
things ' put their evil nature off,' and the ' little 
change ' the action involved, are both charac- 
teristic of Shelley's ethical scheme. Evil was 
conceived as something that could be laid aside, 
like a garment, by the will of man. Cf. HI. 
iv. 199, note. 

III. iv. 104, 105. Through the power of love. 

III. iv. 128 change. Cf. HI. iv. 104, 105. 

III. iv. 172. Rossetti conjectures a comma 
after conquerors and a period after round. The 
text of Shelley seems plain without the change. 
The emblems of Power and Faith stand in the 
new world unregarded and mouldering memori- 
als of a dead past, just as the Egyptian monu- 
ments imaged to a later time than their own a 
vanished monarchy and religion ; the fact that 
these monuments survived the new race and 
last into our still later time is an unnecessary 
and subordinate incident inserted because it ap- 
pealed to Shelley's imagination. Cf . Swinburne, 
Notes on the Text of Shelley. 

III. iv. 193, 197. The ideal here described is 
anarchistic, but it is also the ultimate of the 
ideas of freedom, fraternity, and equalitj"", and 
of the supremacy of that inward moral order 



which would dispense with those functions of 
government in which Shelley believed wrong 
necessarily resides. 

III. iv. 199. The supremacy of the ' will ' 
of man, though less dwelt on in this drama, is 
conceived in the same way as in The Revolt 
OF Islam, VIII. xvi., the Ode to Liberty, V. 
10, Sonnet, Political Greatness, 11. It is 
fundamental in Shelley's beliefs. 

Page 197. Act IV. This act was, as the 
Head-note states, an afterthought. It is to be 
observed that Prometheus, after his release, 
ceases to be of importance, owing to the fact 
that his symbolic character as mankind is 
dropped, and liberated and regenerated society 
is directly described in the millennial passages. 
In this Act he does not appear at all, though 
the true significance of his deed closes the 
drama. Similarly, Asia disappears. Panthea 
and lone are the spectators and act as the 
chorus, in the Greek sense, to the other partici- 
pants. The part of the chorus has from the 
beginning of the drama threatened to over- 
whelm the part of the actors ; here it does so 
to such an extent that the Act presents the 
anomaly (in form) of lyrical passages as the 
main interest, with the chorus, properly speak- 
ing, in blank verse. The Act has three move- 
ments : the paean of the Hours, the antiphony 
of the Earth and the Moon, the Invocation of 
the Universe by Demogorgon. 

IV. 34 One, Prometheus. 

IV. 65-67. These three lines might be taken 
severally as a summary of the theme of Acts I., 
II., and III. 

IV. 82. A singularly felicitous expression to 
describe the double aspect of language as sound 
and color. 

IV. 186. The harmony of the sphere. 

IV. 203. The image of the stream of sound 
is here again introduced. Cf. II. v. 72, note. 

IV. 210. The image is of ' the new moon 
with the old moon in her arms.' Cf. The 
Triumph of Life, 79-85. 

IV. 213 regard, appear. 

IV. 217. The sunset image accounts for the 
phrase ' ebbing ' in 208. Cf . Revolt OF 
Islam, I. vi. 8, note. 

IV. 238 sphere, the earth. 

IV. 247. The intention seems to be to suggest 
the incessant operation of manifold natural 
forces and processes in the sphere, each in its 
own realm. 

IV. 265. This is the same spirit as in III. 
iii. 148. 

IV. 272. The reference is to Harmodius and 
Aristogeiton. 

IV. 281 valueless, above all value. The 
speech reveals the history of the earth as the 
previous speech reveals its physical structure. 
Shelley does not consider the chronology of the 
spectacle, but merely presents, first, the antique 
ruins of humanity, and, second, the fossil pri- 
meval world. 

rV. 314 blue globe, the world of waters. 

IV. 376. The construction of this and the fol' 
lowing stanzas is unusually involved. It (Love), 



626 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



from the preceding stanza, is the subject of 
has arisen ; sea is in apposition with world (384) ; 
which (385) refers to love ; Leave (388) repeating 
Leave in 382, takes up the dropped construction ; 
and Man (394) similarly repeating Man from 
388, introduces a new train of thought. 

IV. 400, 401. The most compact statement 
of fcihelley's social ideal, with its spontaneous 
ethical order of love. 

IV. 404. The fact that Shelley did not ex- 
clude toil and suffering from his millennium of 
society is a cardinal point. Cf. III. iii. 171 
note, and III. iii. 201. 

IV. 406. Cf. III. iii. 199 note. 

IV. 414. Cf . II. iv. 83 note. 

IV. 423. The prophecy of scientific progress 
is apocalyptic in visionary energy. 

IV. 444. A singular instance of precise sci- 
entific imagination in poetry. Cf . Epipsychi- 
DiON, 227, Hellas, I. 943. 

IV. 493, 494. The lines are given by Ros- 
setti to the preceding speech, but without prob- 
ability. Cf. Lines, p. 435. 

IV. 503. The development of the image of 
the stream of sound could not go further than in 
this and the following lines. 

IV. 536. Cf. III. iii. 171 note. 

IV. 554 Demogorgon. The sudden and com- 
plete subordination of all the beings of the uni- 
verse to the idea of the Eternal Principle is 
accomplished with sublime effect. The drama 
is thus brought to an end, after its lyrical jubi- 
lee, by its highest intellectual conception giving 
utterance to its highest moral command,— 
Demogorgon, the voice of Eternity, phrasing, in 
the presence of the listening Universe of all be- 
ing, the encomium of Prometheus as the type of 
the soul's wisdom in action in an evil world 
leading to the achievement of such regeneration 
on earth as is possible to a mortal race. 

IV. 555 Earth-horn's, Prometheus.^ 

IV. 557. Love is here identified with Prome- 
theus, in whom it reigned and suffered. 

IV. 565 Eternity. Demogorgon is properly 
Eternity, but here speaks of Eternity under 
another conception. 

IV. 568. The use of the serpent image for 
the principle of evil is contrary to Shelley's 
practice. 

IV. 570. Cf . The Revolt of Islam, VIII. 
xi., xii., xxii., where Laone's speech contains 
these maxims in a weaker and diffused form ; 
they constitute Shelley's persistent ideal, and of 
them he made Prometheus the type ; he here 
identifies this ideal, which is one of suffering 
under wrong, with all forms of the good and of 
power, thereby affirming the supremacy of spir- 
itual moral order at all times and under all cir- 
cumstances. Neither Platonic nor Christian 
faith is more absolute. 

Page 206. The Cenci. The narrative of 
the events upon which The Cenci is founded 
is reprinted in the Centenary Edition, ii. 447- 
463, with notes of other accounts. The Shak- 
sperian echoes, mainly from Lear, Macbeth, and 
Othello, are easily recognizable. The simile 
from Calderon, mentioned in the Preface, is in 



Act III. i. 247. The passage in Act II. ii. 141, 
recalls the Fragment, page 487, To thirst 
AND FIND NO FiLL. The text offers no diffi- 
culty. Criticism of the play has been uniformly 
appreciative, though it did not succeed when 
privately acted. May 7, 1886, in London. The 
action, owing to the difficulty of displaying the 
story, is weak ; the characterization of Cenci 
and Beatrice is vigorous, and that of Orsino 
and Giacomo is studied with attention and in- 
genuity ; the other persons only serve to carry 
on the scenes. The dignity of the diction, the 
elevation of the sentiments, and the adherence 
to Italian contemporary habits of mind as un- 
derstood by Shelley, are admirable. The total 
effect is of intense and awful gloom, and the 
play is more powerful as a whole than in any 
detail, scene, or act. In it culminates that 
fascination of horror in Shelley which was as 
characteristic as his worship of beauty and 
love, though it is less omnipresent in his poe- 
try. 

Page 252. The Mask of Anarchy. Salt 
refers, for the events giving occasion for this 
poem, to Martineau, History of the Peace, I. 
chaps, xvi., xvii. A MS. facsimile of the text in 
Shelley's hand was published by the Shelley 
Society, 1887. 

Stanzas iv., v. Cf. To the Lord Chancel- 
lor, xiii. ; and CEdipus Tyrannus, I. 334. 

Stanza xxviii. 1 Shape. Salt identifies the 
figure as that of Liberty. 

Stanza xxx. Cf . Prometheus Unbound, I. 
772 note. 

Stanza xxxv. The doctrine of Prometheus 
Unbound and The Revolt op Islam. 

Stanza xlv. Cf. OEdipus Tyrannus, I. 196 
note. 

Page 258. Peter Bell the Third. The 
poem satirizes Wordsworth on the ground of 
his conservatism in politics and the dulness of 
much of his poetry. 

Page 259 Thomas Brown, Esq., the Younger, 
H. F. The pseudonym under which Moore 
published The Fudge Family. H. F. is inter- 
preted by Dr. Garnett as ' Historian of the 
Fudges ; ' Rossetti suggests Hibernice Filius. 

The world of all of us, Wordsworth, Prelude, 
XI. 142. 

Page 260 ' to occupy a permanent station.^ 
Rossetti compares Wordsworth's preface to 
Peter Bell. 

Shelley's Notes on the poem are as fol- 
lows : 

Prologue 36. The oldest scholiasts read — 
A dodecagamic Potter. 

This is at once more descriptive and more 
megalophonous, — but the alliteration of the 
text had captivated the vulgar ear of the herd 
of later commentators. 

I. ii. 3. To those who have not duly appreci- 
ated the distinction between Whale and Russia 
oil, this attribute might rather seem to belong 
to the Dandy than the Evangelic. The effect, 
when to the windward, is indeed so similar, 
that it requires a subtle naturalist to discrimi' 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



627 



nate the animals. They belong, however, to 
distinct genera. 

III. viii. 2. One of the attributes in Lin- 
nseus's description of the Cat. To a similar 
cause the caterwauling of more than one spe- 
cies of this genus is to be referred ; — except, 
indeed, that the poor quadruped is compelled 
to quarrel with its own pleasures, whilst the 
biped is supposed only to quarrel with those of 
others. 

viii. 5. What would this husk and excuse 
for a virtue be without its kernel prostitution, 
or the kernel prostitution without this husk of 
a virtue ? I wonder the women of the town do 
not form an association, like the ISociety for the 
Suppression of Vice, for the support of what 
may be called the ' King, Church, and Consti- 
tution ' of their order. But this subject is al- 
most too horrible for a joke. 

xvi. 1. This libel on our national oath, and 
this accusation of all our countrymen of being 
in the daily practice of solemnly asseverating 
the most enormous falsehood, I fear deserves 
the notice of a more active Attorney-General 
than that here alluded to. 

VI. xi. 5 Vox populi, vox dei. As Mr. 
Godwin truly observes of a more famous saying, 
of some merit as a popular maxim, hut totally 
destitute of philosophical accuracy. 

xvi. 2. Quasi, Qui valet verba : — i. e. all the 
words which have been, are, or may be expended 
by, for, against, with, or on him. A sufficient 
proof of the utility of this history. Peter's pro- 
genitor who selected this name seems to have 
possessed a pure anticipated cognition of the na- 
ture and modesty of this ornament of his pos- 
terity. 

XXV. 5, A famous river in the New Atlantis 
of the Dynastophylic Pantisocratists. 

xxvi. 5. See the description of the beautiful 
colors produced during the agonizing death of a 
number of trout, in the fourth part of a long 
poem in blank verse [TAe Excursion, Book 
VIII. 559-572] published within a few years. 
That poem contains curious evidence of the 
gradual hardening of a strong but circum- 
scribed sensibility, of the perversion of a pene- 
trating but panic-stricken understanding. The 
author might have derived a lesson which he 
had probably forgotten from these sweet and 
sublime verses. 

This lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, 
Taught both by what she [nature] shows and what con- 
ceals, 
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels. 

[Wordsworth, Hartleap Well, II. xxi.] 

xxxviii. 6. It is curious to observe how 
often extremes meet. Cobbett and Peter use 
the same language for a different purpose: 
Peter is indeed a sort of metrical Cobbett. 
Cobbett is, however, more naischievous than 
Peter, because he pollutes a holy and now un- 
conquerable cause with the principles of legiti- 
mate murder; whilst the other only makes a 
bad one ridiculous and odious. If either Peter 



or Cobbett should see this note, each will feel 
more indignation at being compared to the other 
than at any censure implied in the moral per- 
version laid to their charge. 

Page 260, Prologue, line 3. Reynolds's 
poem. 

Line 16. Wordsworth's poem. 

Line 22. Shelley's poem. The three are said 
to present Peter in the state before, during, and 
after life. 

III. ii. 1 Castles, identified by Rossetti as a 
Government spy. 

III. xiii. 4 Alemannic, German. 

IV. ix. The stanza, a striking critical state- 
ment of the originality of a creator in literature, 
seems sincerely meant. Cf. also the praise 
hidden in the satire of V. vii.-xv. ; The Witch 
OF Atlas, iv.-vi. ; the sonnet To Words- 
worth ; An Exhortation. 

IV. xiv. 1-2. ' A mouth kissed loses not 
charm but renews as does the moon.' Rossetti 
quotes Shelley to Hunt, 27 September 1819, 
where Boccaccio is praised and these words re- 
ferred to. 

V. i. 3 man, Coleridge. The characteriza- 
tion is remarkable for one who did not know 
the poet ; it is discriminating and vivid, and not 
unjust, allowing for the satirical tone. Cf. 
Letter to Maria Gisborne, 202. 

VI. xii. The reference is to Wordsworth's 
prefaces. 

VI. XV. The reference is to Drummond's 
Academical Questions, a favorite book of 
Shelley's. 

VI. xxix. 4. Sheridan. 

VI. xxxvi. 2. Wordsworth, Thanksgiving Ode 
on the Battle of Waterloo, first version (see 
Knight's ed. Poetical Works, Second Ode, iv. 
20). 

VII. iv. 4 Oliver, identified by Forman as a 
Government spy ' prominent in the case of 
Brandreth, Turner, and Ludlam, whose execu- 
tion in 1817 inspired Shelley to write The Ad- 
dress to the People on the Death of the Princess 
Charlotte.' 

xiv. 4 Guatimozin, son-in-law of Monte- 
zuma, whom he succeeded as the last Aztec 
prince. He was tortured by Cortez. 

Page 271. The Witch of Atlas. This 
poem derives its tone from Homer's Hymn t» 
Mercury, which Shelley had recently translated 
in the same measure and literary manner. To 
search for its meaning is like plucking the rose 
apart ; for once, it seems to me, though with- 
out losing the rich suggestiveness inherent in the 
workings of his mind, Shelley allowed his genius 
to play with its habitual images and tendencies 
without definite intention, in pure self -enjoy- 
ment of its own beauty and sweetness. No 
poem of his is so happy, so free from the mortal 
strain of life and effort, so disengaged from the 
wretchedness of men. In the earlier stages one 
might find analogies with the Hymn to Intel- 
lectual Beauty and guess that Shelley was 
weaving round the spirit of universal life the 
rcbe of illusion that should render it visible in 



628 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



transparency of human form and activity ; but 
as the verse flows on, with the familiar imagery 
of the boat and its voyage through subterranean 
caverns and among mountains, and develops 
the wanderings of the Witch among cities and 
in the solitudes of far-off nature, it appears to 
me that Shelley interprets half-consciously the 
functions of genius, imagination, and poetry 
conceived almost as interdependent existences 
with only a remote and dreamy relation to hu- 
man life. The Witch, who cannot die, is in 
the world of Prometheus and Urania, a semi- 
divine world separated from the miserable fate 
of men, though not detached from the know- 
ledge of their life. I associate the Herma- 
phrodite of the poem with the undefined figure 
of the Lines Connected with Epipsychi- 
DION. Shelley uses the word ' Witch ' in a 
similar connection twice : ' In the still cave of 
the witch Poesy,' Mont Blanc, ii. 33, and 
'the quaint witch. Memory,' Letter to Ma- 
jiiA GiSBORNE, 132. The poem most analo- 
gous with The Witch of Atlas is The Sen- 
sitive Plant ; the figure of the Witch, while 
not less touched with mystery than the Lady of 
'•he garden, is more definite ; and the ideality of 
the landscape, nowhere in Shelley's verse so 
g^eat as here, is superior in the same propor- 
tion as the expanse of the globe exceeds the 
limits of the garden. 

Page 272 To Mary, his wife. 

Stanza iii. 1 winged Vision, The Revolt of 
Islam. 

Stanza iv. 2. Cf . Peter Bell, IV. ix. note. 

Page 273, stanza ii. Cf. Homer's Hymn to 
Memory, i. and Spenser's Faerie Queene, III. 
vi. 7. 

vi. Here, and in the following stanzas, there 
appear to be reminiscences of Spenser's Una. 

ix. 5. A variant of the idea of Demogorgon 
in Prometheus Unbound. 

xi. 2 pastoral Garamant, Fezzan. 

xi. 8 bosom-eyed, a suggestion associated with 
Coleridge's Witch in Christabel. 

xviii. 2. Archimage, Spenser's naagician in 
the Faerie Queene, 1. i. 

XXV. 7. Cf . stanza i. ; the reference is to the 
belief that the old divinities passed away at the 
birth of Christ. Cf. Hellas, 225-238 ; Milton, 
Ode on the Nativity, xix.-xxi. 

xxxii., xxxiii. Cf. The Zucca and Frag- 
ments OF AN Unfinished Drama, 127. 

xlvii. 8 Thamandocana, Timbuctoo. 

Ivii. 4 Axume, Abyssinia. 

lix. 1-4. A favorite and oft-repeated linage 
of Shelley's. Cf . Ode to Liberty, vi. 1 note. 

Ixiii. The contrast between the lot of men 
and that of the immortals is the same as in 
Prometheus Unbound. 

Ixvii. 8 The Heliad, the lady-witch. 

Page 283. CEdipus Tyrannus. Salt refers, 
for the historical basis of this grotesque drama, 
to Martineau's History of the Peace, II. ch. ii. 
He suggests, besides the identifications men- 
tioned in the Head-note, that the Leech is taxes, 
the Gadfly, slander ; the Rat, espionage. The 
Minotaur is, of course, John Bull ; Adiposa (I. 



290), Rossetti says, was an easily identified titled 
lady of the time, whose name he allows ' to 
sleep.' The example is rare enough to merit 
imitation. 

Shelley's Notes on the drama are as fol- 
lows : 

I. 8. See Universal History for an account 
of the number of people who died, and the im- 
mense consumption of garlic by the wretched 
Egyptians, who made a sepulchre for the name 
as well as the bodies of their tyrants. 

I. 153. And the Lord whistled for the gad- 
fly out of Ethiopia, and for the bee of Egypt, 
etc. — Ezekiel. [The proper reference is to 
Isaiah vii. 18 : ' And it shall come to i^ass in 
that day that the Lord shall hiss for the fly that 
is in the uttermost part of the rivers of Egypt, 
and for the bee that is in the land of Assyria.'] 

I. 204. If one should marry a gallows, and 
beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. 
— Cymbeline. 

II. 173. Rich and rare were the gems she 
wore. — See Moore'' s Irish Melodies. 

Page 286, I. 77 arch-priest^ perhaps Malthus 
is meant. 

I. 101. Rossetti notes that this line was a 
' de /ac^o utterance of Lord Castlereagh.' 

I. 196 Ghrysaor. Rossetti notes the allusion 
to 'paper-money discussions.' Cf. The Mask 
OF Anarchy, xlv. 

I. 334. Cf . The Mask of Anarchy, iv. note. 

II. 60-66. Shelley writes to Peacock, No- 
vember 8, 1818: 'Every here and there one 
sees people employed in agricultural labors, and 
the plough, the harrow, or the cart, drawn by 
long teams of milk-white or dove-colored oxen 
of immense size and exquisite beauty. This, 
indeed, might be the country of Pasiphaes.' 
Cf. Lines Written among the Euganean 
Hills, 220 

Page 29'; . Epipsychidion. This poem has 
been edited, with a careful study of it, by 
Rev. Stopford A. Brooke, in the Shelley So- 
ciety's Publications (Second Series, No. 7), 1887, 
and its sources have been examined by Dr. 
Richard Ackermann in his Quellen, Vorbilder, 
Stoffe zu Shelley^ s Poetischen Werken, 1890. _ It 
represents the final outcome of conceptions 
which had been present, in a half -formed state, 
in Shelley's mind from the beginning of his true 
^oetic career in 1816. They constituted, as it 
^ere, the elements of an unwritten poem in a 
fluid state, and were suddenly precipitated by 
the accident of his meeting with Emilia Vivi- 
ani under circumstances that made a romantic 
appeal to his genius. It is easy to enumerate 
these elements. The conception of a Spiritual 
Power which is felt in the loveliness of nature 
and in the thought of man is set forth in the 
Hymn to Intellectual Beauty (cf. The 
Revolt of Islam, VI. xxxviii. 1), and to it 
Shelley dedicates his powers ; the pursuit of 
this spirit, typified under the form of woman 
and seen only in vision, is the substance of 
Alastor, auo! the end is represented as the 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



629 



lonely death of the poet. The conception of a 
youth in whom ' genius and death contended ' 
— a variant of the youth in Alastor — occurs 
in The Sunset, 4, and in the Dedication to 
The Revolt of Islam, x. 9, and it is notice- 
able that the figure is repeated as late as Ado- 
NAis, xliv., in nearly identical terms. In The 
Sunset, as in Alastor, the youth dies. A 
new poem. Prince Athanase, was partly 
•written, in which apparently the same pursuit 
of the ideal was to be represented ; but the con- 
duct of the poem was to be complicated by the 
error of Athanase in mistaking the earthly love 
for the heavenly love, in consequence of which 
Shelley first named the poem Pandemos and 
Urania. The figure of Urania would have 
appeared at the deathbed of Athanase. The 
pursuit of the ideal was given a metaphysical 
form in the prose fragment On Love. He there 
describes the ideal self as ' a miniature as it 
were of our entire self, yet deprived of all that 
we condemn or despise ; the ideal prototype 
of everything excellent or lovely that we are 
capable of conceiving as belonging to the nature 
of man.' He calls it ' a soul within our soul ; ' 
and he adds, ' the discovery of its antitype 
[the responding being] is the invisible and un- 
attainable point to which Love tends.' In the 
absence of this beloved one, nature solaces us 
(cf. The Zucca). Shelley had thus conceived 
of the ideal, both in its universal and in a par- 
ticular form, — the latter under the form of 
woman. In the Prometheus Unbound he 
blended the two in Asia, but not so as to hu- 
manize her ; she remains elemental. Titanic, 
and divine. He returned to the conception of 
Prince Athanase in Una Favola, in which 
he presents the same subject much Italianized 
in imagery and tone, and essentially as an auto- 
biography. The ideas of the pursuit, of the 
contest for the youth, of his error and recovery, 
are all present. In the Lines Connected 
with Epipsychidion, beside rejected passages 
of that poem, there is a dedication (possibly 
meant for Fiordispina) in which Shelley ad- 
dresses an imaginary and uncertain figure, aptly 
named ' his Genius,' by Dr. Garnett, and in 
this he develops a statement of free love after 
Plato's Symposium, in which all objects of 
beauty are to be loved in an ascending series 
as varying and incomplete embodiments of the 
infinite and eternal beauty. 

Epipsychidion resumes these elements and 
combines them into one poem. The ' soul 
within the soul ' of the prose fragment On 
Love is figured to have left the poet, and he 
pursues it and finds it, as if it were ' the anti- 
type ' of the same fragment, in Emily. The 
Spirit of Beauty and Love, also, the eternal 
soul of the world, is represented as veiling itself 
in this form of woman, one of its incarnations ; 
and communion with it is sought in her. Thus 
under the form of Emily, Shelley unites these 
cognate and separable conceptions. The pur- 
suit of the ideal after the manner of both Alas- 
tor and Prince Athanase is easily recog- 
nizable, and the part of Pandemos in the forest 



of error of Una Favola is plain. The autobi- 
ographical element of the latter is much more 
defined and more violently stated, with novel 
imagery of winter and of the planetary system ; 
but it remains essentially the conflict, variously 
stated by Shelley as between ' genius and death,* 
'love and death,' and 'life and love,' over 
the lost youth. The passage relating to free 
love is an episode, and stands by itself. The 
description of the paradise is a late rendering oi 
that bower of bliss which is a constant elemen* 
in Shelley's verse. A poem made up of such 
various thoughts and subjects, not naturall5 
consistent, could not fail to present much diffi- 
culty to the reader, as they are incapable of be^ 
ing reduced to intellectual unity, though, as has 
been said, they are cognate and intimately re- 
lated matters. 

If Shelley had in mind the Vita Nuova of 
Dante (cf, also Shelley's translation of The 
First Canzone of the Convito) and would 
have placed Emily in a relation to his doctrine of 
love and beauty in a way similar to that which 
Dante attempted, his intention was infelici' 
tons ; for the lack of reality is felt too strongly. 
Emily is, at best, a fiction of thought, and hei 
human personality, where felt, detracts from the 
power of the poem. It appears to me that a 
similar unreality, as to fact, belongs to the 
autobiographical passages. The spiritual his' 
tory of Shelley's pursuit of the ideal (the 'ideal- 
ized history of my life and feelings ') is clearly 
set forth in the poem, and can be verified by 
the succession of his previous works as above. 
On the other hand, the personal history of 
Shelley is obscurely told, at best, and except 
for the representation of Mary and Emily as the 
moon and the sim, is incapable of verification. 
Hov little essential truth there was in the part 
ascribed to Emily is well known. The other 
passages, which have been interpreted as per- 
sonal, may be similarly touched with tenuity 
as matters of fact, though correctly represent- 
ing in allegory the moods of Shelley's inner life 
as he remembered them. The memory of a 
poet, especially if it be touched with pain and 
remorse, when he allows his eloquence to work 
in images of sorrow and despair to express what 
would otherwise remain forever unutterable by 
his lips, is an entirely untrustworthy witness of 
fact. Shelley's self-description has the truth 
of his poetic consciousness at the time, and its 
moods are sadly sustained by many passag-es of 
his verse ; but to seek precise fact and named 
individuals as meant by his words is, I believe, 
futile, and may be misleading. It is only as a 
poem of the inner life that Epipsychidion has 
its high imaginative interest. In the last move- 
ment of the poem, the voyage, the isle, and the 
passion are a mystical symbol of the_ soul coin- 
muning with the ideal object of its pursuit 
under images of mortal beauty and love ; the 
possession of the ideal, so far as living man can 
in any way attain to such consciousness of it, is 
pictured. The suggestion of Prospero's isle is 
very strongly felt, 457, and the mysticism of 
the intention is plain, as in 410 and 477-479. It 



630 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



appears to me that the realm of poetry may be 
the specific underlying thought in the allegory, 
poetry being to Shelley what the isle of the 
Tempest was to Prospero, his kingdom of en- 
chantment and also the medium through which 
he had communion with the Eternal Spirit. I 
associate the imagery, so far as it is descriptive 
of nature and contains veiled meanings, with 
the similar passages of The Witch of Atlas, 
where to ray mind the ways and delights of Ge- 
nius, Imagination, and Poetry, are the subject of 
the verse. At all events, the poem, in this sec- 
tion, is entirely disengaged from the personality 
of Emily, and of the others, and belongs with 
such delineations of supersensual being as The 
Witch of Atlas and The Sensitive Plant. 

Shelley's Fragment, On Love. 

Thou demandest what is love ? It is that 
powerful attraction towards all that we con- 
ceive, or fear or hope beyond ourselves, when 
we find within our own thoughts the chasm of 
an insufficient void, and seek to awaken in all 
things that are, a community with what we ex- 
perience within ourselves. If we reason, we 
would be understood ; if we imagine, we would 
that the airy children of our brain were born 
anew within another's ; if we feel, we would 
that another's nerves should vibrate to our own, 
that the beams of their eyes should kindle at 
once and mix and melt into our own, that lips 
of motionless ice should not reply to lips quiver- 
ing and burning with the heart's best blood. 
This is Love. This is the bond and the sanc- 
tion which connects not only man with man, 
but with everything which exists. We are born 
into the world, and there is something within 
us which, from the instant that we live, more 
and more thirsts after its likeness. It is prob- 
ably in correspondence with this law that the 
infant drains milk from the bosom of its mo- 
ther ; this propensity develops itself with the 
development of our nature. We dimly see 
within our intellectual nature a miniature as it 
were of our entire self, yet deprived of all that 
we condemn or despise ; the ideal prototype of 
everything excellent or lovely that we are ca- 
pable of conceiving as belonging to the nature 
of man. Not only the portrait of our external 
being, but an assemblage of the minutest par- 
ticles of which our nature is composed ; ^ a mir- 
ror whose surface reflects only the forms of 
purity and brightness ; a soul within our soul 
that describes a circle around its proper para- 
dise, which pain, and sorrow, and evil dare not 
overleap. To this we eagerly refer all sensa- 
tions, thirsting that they should resemble or 
correspond with it. The discovery of its anti- 
type ; the meeting with an understanding ca- 
pable of clearly estimating our oAvn ; an imagi- 
nation which should enter into and seize upon 
the subtle and delicate peculiarities which we 
have delighted to cherish and imfold in secret ; 
with a frame whose nerves, like the chords of 

1 These words are ineffectual and metaphorical. 
ZCost words are so. No help ! 



two exquisite lyres, strung to the accompani- 
ment of one delightful voice, vibrate with the 
vibrations of our own ; and of a combination of 
all these in such proportion as the type within 
demands ; this is the invisible and unattainable 
point to which Love tends ; and to attain which, 
it urges forth the ;)owers of man to arrest the 
faintest shadow of that without the possession 
of which there is no rest nor respite to the 
heart over which it rules. Hence in solitude, 
or in that deserted state when we are sur- 
rounded by human beings, and yet they sympa- 
thize not with us, we love the flowers, the grass, 
and the waters and the sky. In the motion of 
the very leaves of spring in the blue air, there 
is then found a secret correspondence with our 
heart. There is eloquence in the tongueless 
wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and 
the rustling of the reeds beside them, which by 
their inconceivable relation to something within 
the soul, awaken the spirits to a dance of 
breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysteri- 
ous tenderness to the eyes, like the enthusiasm 
of patriotic success, or the voice of one beloved 
singing to you alone. Sterne says that if he 
were in a desert he would love some cypress. 
So soon as this want or power is dead, man be- 
comes the living sepulchre of himself, and what 
yet survives is the mere husk of what once he 



Shelley's Fragment, Una Favola (Gar- 
nett's trans.). 

There was a youth who travelled through dis- 
tant lands, seeking throughout the world a lady 
of whom he was enamoured. And who this 
lady was, and how this youth became enamoured 
of her, and how and why the great love he bore 
her forsook him, are things worthy to be known 
by every gentle heart. 

At the dawn of the fifteenth spring of his 
life, a certain one calling himself Love awoke 
him, saying that one whom he had ofttimes be- 
held in his dreams abode awaiting him. This 
Love was accompanied by a great troop of 
female forms, "all veiled in white, and crowned 
with laurel, ivy, and myrtle, garlanded and in- 
terwreathed with violets, roses, and lilies. 
They sang with such sweetness that perhaps 
the harmony of the spheres, to which the stars 
dance, is not so sweet. And their manners and 
words were so alluring that the youth was en- 
ticed, and, arising from his couch, made him- 
self ready to do all the pleasure of him who 
called himself Love ; at whose behest he fol- 
lowed him by lonely ways and deserts and cav- 
erns, until the whole troop arrived at a solitary 
wood, in a gloomy valley between two most 
lofty mountains, which valley was planted in 
the manner of a labyrinth, with pines, cypresses, 
cedars, and yews, whose shadows begot a mix- 
ture of delight and sadness. And in this wood 
the youth for a whole year followed the uncer- 
tain footsteps of this his companion and guide, 
as the moon follows the earth, save that there 
was no change in him, and nourished by the fruit 
of a certain tree which grew in the midst of the 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



631 



labyrinth — a food sweet and bitter at once, 
"which being cold as ice to the lips, appeared 
fire in the veins. The veiled figures were con- 
tinually around him, ministers and attendants 
obedient to his least gesture, and messengers 
between him and Love, when Love might leave 
him for a little on his other errands. But these 
figures, albeit executing his every other com- 
mand with swiftness, never would unveil them- 
selves to him, although he anxiously besought 
them ; one only excepted, whose name was Jjife, 
and who had the fame of a potent enchantress. 
She was tall of person and beautiful, cheerful 
and easy in her manners, and richly adorned, 
and, as it seemed from her ready unveiling of 
herself, she wished well to this youth. But he 
soon perceived that she was more false than 
any Siren, for by her counsel Love abandoned 
him in this savage place, with only the com- 
pany of these shrouded figures, who, by their 
obstinately remaining veiled, had always 
wrought him dread. And none can expound 
whether these figures were the spectres of his 
own dead thoughts, or the shadows of the liv- 
ing thoughts of Love. Then Life, haply ashamed 
of her deceit, concealed herself within the cav- 
ern of a certain sister of hers dwelling there ; 
and Love, sighing, returned to his third heaven. 
Scarcely had Love departed, when the 
masked forms, released from his government, 
unveiled themselves before the astonished 
yovith. And for many days these figures danced 
around him whithersoever he went, alternately 
mocking and threatening him ; and in the night 
while he reposed they defiled in long and slow 
procession before his couch, each more hideous 
and terrible than the other. Their horrible 
aspect and loathsome figure so overcame his 
heart with sadness that the fair heaven, cov- 
ered with that shadow, clothed itself in clouds 
before his eyes ; and he wept so much that the 
herbs upon his path, fed with tears instead of 
dew, became pale and bowed like himself. 
Weary at length of this suffering, he came to 
the grot of the Sister of Life, herself also an 
enchantress, and found her sitting before a pale 
fire of perfumed wood, singing laments sweet in 
their melancholy, and weaving a white shroud, 
upon which his name was half wrought, with 
the obscure and imperfect beginning of a certain 
other name ; and he besought her to tell him her 
own, and she said, with a faint but sweet voice, 
' Death.' And the youth said, ' lovely Death, 
I pray thee to aid me against these hateful 
phantoms, companions of thy sister, which 
cease not to torment me.' And Death com- 
forted him, and took his hand with a smile, and 
kissed his brow and cheek, so that every vein 
thrilled with joy and fear, and made him abide 
with her in a chamber of her cavern, whither, 
she said, it was against Destiny that the wicked 
companions of Life should ever come. The 
youth continually conversing with Death, and 
she, like-minded to a sister, caressing him and 
showing him every courtesy both in deed and 
word, he quickly became enamoured of her, 
and Life herself, far less any of her troop, 



seemed fair to him no longer ; and his passion 
so overcame him that upon his knees he prayed 
Death to love him as he loved her, and consent to 
do his pleasure. But Death said, ' Audacious 
that thou art, with whose desire has Death ever 
complied ? If thou lovedst me not, perchance 
1 might love thee — beloved by thee, I hate 
thee and I fly thee.' Thus saying, she went 
forth from the cavern, and her dusky and 
ethereal form was soon lost amid the inter- 
woven boughs of the forest. 

From that moment the youth pursued the 
track of Death ; and so mighty was the love that 
led him that he had encircled the world and 
searched through all its regions, and many years 
were already spent, but sorrows rather than 
years had blanched his locks and withered the 
flower of his beauty, when he found himself 
upon the confines of the very forest from which 
his wretched wanderings had begian. He cast 
himself upon the grass and wept for many hours, 
so blinded by his tears that for much time he 
did not perceive that not all that bathed his 
face and his bosom were his own, but that a 
lady bowed behind him wept for pity of his 
weeping. And lifting up his eyes he saw her, 
and it seemed to him never to have beheld so 
glorious a vision, and he doubted much whether 
she were a human creature. And his love of 
Death was suddenly changed into hate and sus- 
picion, for this new love was so potent that it 
overcame every other thought. This compas- 
sionate lady at first loved him for mere pity ; 
but love grew up swiftly with compassion, and 
she loved for Love's own sake, no one be- 
loved by her having need of pity any niore. 
This was the lady in whose quest Love had led 
the youth through that gloomy labyrinth of 
error and suffering, haply for that he esteemed 
him unworthy of so much glory, and perceived 
him too weak to support such exceeding joy. 
After having somewhat dried their tears, the 
twain walked together in that same forest, until 
Death stood before them, and said, ' Whilst, 
youth, thou didst love me, 1 hated thee, and 
now that thou hatest me, I love thee, and wish 
so well to thee and thy bride that in my king- 
dom, which thou mayest call Paradise, I have 
set apart a chosen spot, where ye may securely 
fulfil your happy loves.' And the lady, of- 
fended, and perchance somewhat jealous bj 
reason of the past love of her spouse, turneo 
her back upon Death, saying within herself, 
' What would this lover of my husband who 
comes here to trouble us ? ' and cried, ' Life .' 
Life ! ' and Life came, with a gay visage 
crowned with a rainbow, and clad in a variou! 
mantle of chameleon skin ; and Death weni 
away weeping, and departing said with a sweet 
voice, ' Ye mistrust me, but I forgive ye, and 
await ye where ye needs must come, for I dwell 
with Love and Eternity, with whom the souls 
whose love is everlasting must hold communion ; 
then will ye perceive whether I have deserved 
your distrust. Meanwhile I commend ye to 
Life ; and, sister mine, I beseech thee, by the 
love of that Death with whom thou wert twi» 



632 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



born, not to employ thy customary arts against 
these lovers, but content thee with the tribute 
thou hast already received of sighs and tears, 
which are thy wealth.' The youth, niindful of 
how great evil she had wrought him in that 
wood, mistrusted Life ; but the lady, although 
she doubted, yet being jealous of Death, . . . 

Page 297. Epipsychidion. L'anima^ the 
soul that loves, projects itself beyond creation, 
and creates for itself in the infinite a world all 
its own, very different from this obscure and 
fearful gulf. 

Page 298 Advertisement, gran vergogna 
the passage, not quite accurately quoted, is 
from Dante's Vita Nuova, xxv. : ' It would be 
a great disgrace to him who should rhyme any- 
thing under the garb of a figure or of rhetorical 
coloring, if afterward, being asked, he should 
not be able to denude his words of this garb, in 
such wise that they should have a true mean- 
ing.' (Norton's trans.) 

Dedication. Cf. Lines connected with 
Epipsychidion, p. 436, line 1. 

Vol, Dante, Convito, Trattato Secondo (cf. 
Shelley's trans., p. 522). 'Ye who intelligent 
the third heaven move,' i. e., the angelic beings 
who guide the sphere of Venus, or love. The 
lines translated below, My Song, are lines 53-61 
of the Canzone. 

Page 298, line 1 spirit, Emilia ; orphan one, 
Mary. 

Line 2 name, Shelley. 

Line 4 withered memory. The reference is 
^o the autobiographical character of the poem. 

Line 5 captive bird. The suggestion is given 
by the confinement of Emilia in the convent ; 
but the poem, wherever it touches the fact of 
life and the person of Emilia, tends immediately 
to escape into the free world of poetry, as here 
the idea of the captive bird leads at once to 
Shelley's imaging his relation as that of the 
rose to the nightingale, but a rose without mor- 
tal life or passion, a dead and thornless rose ; 
and, directly, in lines 13-18, the image of the 
bird and the cage loses touch with Emilia and 
becomes the metaphor for the spirit in the body. 

Line 21 Seraph. In this invocation, through 
its succession of characteristic images that 
Shelley uses to symbolize the eternal Loveliness, 
nothing is present in the verse except the gen- 
eral symbolization of the Ideal vmder the form 
of woman, as in Dante's Beatrice. Emilia's 
personality does not color the conceptions, but 
rather the conceptions give life to her. Shelley's 
source is his lifelong idea of the Eternal Love- 
liness, not now new-found in Plato or Dante, 
though possibly quickened by his recent reading 
of the latter, and touched in some details by 
reminiscences of it. Ackermann compares with 
lines 21-24 Vita Nuova, xix. 43-44 (Norton's 
trans.) : 

• Love saith concerning her : " How can it be 
That mortal thing be thus adorned and pure ? " ' 

xlii. 7, 8 : 

''Who so rioth shine that through her splendid light 
Th& pilgrim spirit upon her doth gaze.' 



Convito, iii. 59-60 : Her aspect overcomes oui 
intelligence as the sun's ray weak vision. 

kSuch parellelism is slight, and less than that 
with tShelley's earlier expression of the game 
conception in the image of Asia, whom line 20 
especially recalls. 

Lines 30-32. Ackermann compares Vita 
Nuova, xxi. 1, 2 (Norton's trans.), 

' Within her eyes ray lady beareth Love, 
So that whom she regards is gentle made.' 

Line 35. The verse returns momentarily to 
Emilia as a weeping and sympathetic figure, 
life-like through the description of her eyes, 
in line 38, and, except for the second series of 
images, 56, 69, remains near her in thought to 
line 72. 

Line 42 Youth''s vision, the vision of Alas- 
tor. 

Line 44 its unvalued shame. The contempt 
that IShelley is indifferent to. 

Line 46 name, spouse, cf. 130. 

Line 49 one, the second ; other, the wish ex- 
pressed in line 45. 

Line 50 names, sister and spouse. 

Line 57. The second series of images deals 
rather with human aspects of ideal love as the 
first dealt rather with the visible aspects of 
ideal beauty, 

Line 68, wingless, i. e., without the power to 
fly away, and hence lasting. 

Line 71. The infirmity lies in the fact that 
Shelley has a double subject, mortal and eternal, 
Emily and the ideal vision, and nowhere in the 
poem does he really fuse them into one as Dante 
did in Beatrice. 

Line 72 She, the figure here ideally de- 
scribed is the type given in lines 25-32, more 
particularized in vision. At the beginning of 
the passage, there is a similar absence of per- 
sonality, and the imagery and idea are reminis- 
cent of the vision of Alastor and the descrip- 
tion of Asia ; and only in line 112 does the verse 
suggest the living figure of Emily, and then only 
momentarily, the imagery immediately soaring 
away from her. 

Line 75 light, life, peace, refer severally to 
Day, Spring, Sorrow, by a usage common to 
English verse. 

Lines 78, 79. Cf . for the gradual development 
and illustration of the image, constant in Shel- 
ley, Alastor, 161-177, The Revolt of Is- 
lam, I. Ivii., Prometheus Unbound, II. i. 
70-79, II. V. 26. 

Lines 83-85. Ackermann compares Vjtci 
Nuova, xxi. 9, 10 ; xxvi. 12-14 ; Convito, iii. 
5-8, 41-43. The parallelism is slight, that of 
the second passage being nighest : 

' And from her countenance there seems to move 
A spirit sweet and in Love's very guise. 
Who to the soul, in going, sayeth : Sigh ! ' 

(Norton's trans.) 

It is true that the word translated countenance 
is labbia, used (says the comment) for faccia^ 
volto. 

Lines 87-90. Cf . Prometheus Unbound, II 
V, 53, note. 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



633 



Lines 91-100. An expansion of line 78. The 
description attempts too great subtlety. The 
' glory ' issues from the eyes under an aspect 
of light and motion, blended yet separately per- 
ceived, and diffuses itself (as it were) over and 
through the countenance and form, seen in flow- 
ing outlines that pass into the blood-warmed 
cheeks and fingers, and finally lose the eye that 
follows in the vision of that supreme beauty 
which is hardly to be supported by mortal sight. 
The passage is built up of three elements, ap- 
parently : the function of the eye (as in the 
older Italian poets) as the gateway of the soul ; 
the function of the physical loveliness of the 
body as the revelation of the soul that ani- 
mates it ; the function of all particular beauty, 
whether of soul or body, or as here inextricably 
blended, to lead the mind back to the Eternal 
Beauty. 

Line 105. The description here becomes 
more purely human, preparing for line 112, 
which must be taken as a direct recurrence 
to Emily, the ' mortal shape ; ' but as the 
intervening images of lines 109-111 exceed true 
human description, so the series of images 
that follow, lines 115-123, apply to the idealized 
presence of beauty rather than to any ' mortal 
shape.' 

Line 117 the third sphere^ that of Venus. 
Cf., above, p. 298, Voi, note. 

Line 130. Cf . line 50. The interval from this 
point to line 189 is of the nature of an interrup- 
tion or excursus, in which Shelley presents and 
defends his doctrine of freedom in love as it 
had come to take on a form of Platonic phi- 
losophy in his mind. Emily is directly ad- 
dressed, as one loved by him. 

Line 137 substance, her spirit. 

Line 148 Beacon, place a warning light upon. 

Line 149. Cf . Lines connected with Epi- 

PSYCHIDION. p. 436. 

Line 169. Cf. Plato, Symposium, 210-211. 

Line 190. The poem here makes a new be- 
ginning, and from here to line 344 is ' the 
idealized history ' of Shelley's life and feelings, 
Being, the vision of Alastor, and also the 
'awful shadow of some unseen power,' of the 
Hymn to Intellectual Beauty. 

Lines 211, 212. In whatever outlives death, 
d,nd is immortal in the works of art. 

Line 228 cone, cf. Prometheus Unbound, 
IV. 444. 

Line 236. Cf . prose fragment On Love. 

Line 238 this soul out of my soul, Shelley's 
translation of the title of the poem, cf . line 455. 
It goes back to the fragment On Love, where 
are the phrases, *a miniature, as it were, of 
our entire self,' 'a soul within our own soul,' 
the ' antitype,' etc. 

Lines 239, 240. Cf . Hymn to Intellectual 
Beauty, V. 

Line 249. Cf. Una Favola. 

Line 256. Venus Panel emos. I incline to this 
interpretation because Pandemus and Ura- 
nia was one of the titles of Prince Athanase, 
which was one of Shelley's early treatments of 
the generic theme of this poem. 



Line 267, i. e., he sought the realization of 
the ideal in living persons. The identification 
of such persons in the three lines following has 
been attempted by Ackermann and others but 
unsatisfactorily. 

Line 272. Cf . Adonais, xxxi. 8-9. 

Line 277 One, Mary Shelley. 

Line 301. Cf. Una Favola. 

Line 308-320. The elucidation of the passage 
as autobiography is futile. The character of 
the Maniac in Julian and Maddalo, and the 
mysterious lady of Naples in the life of Shelley 
(cf , Invocation to Misery, note), have been 
referi'ed to by commentators ; but what reality 
there was in either is unknown. 

Line 345 Twin Spheres, i. e., Mary and 
Emily, as the Moon and Sun, Shelley being the 
Earth. 

Ijine 368 Comet, the third person, who is to 
be made the Evening Star, after the analogy of 
the Sun, Moon, and Earth, is not to be identi- 
fied. 

Line 388. The last movement of the poem 
here begins. Cf . Lines written Among the 
EuGANEAN Hills, 335-373, and Prometheus 
Unbound, III. iii. 

Line 592. Cf. Dante, Vita Nuova, XII, Bal- 
lata, 35-40. 

Line 595. Cf. Dante, Vita Nuova, XXXII., 
Canzone, 71-74. 

Line 601. Cf. Dante, Sonetto, 11. 9 (Shelley's 
trans, p. 522). Marina is Mary, Vanna, Jane 
Williams, Primus, Edward Williams. 

Page 307. Adonais. This poem has been 
edited, with elaborate notes and other matter, 
by Rossetti (Clarendon Press, 1891), and its 
sources have been studied by Dr. Richard 
Ackermann, Quellen, Vorbilder, Stoffe zu Shel- 
ley'' s Poetischen Werken, 1890. Rossetti refers 
also to Lt.-Col. Hime's Greek Materials of Shel- 
ley^s Adonais, 1888, a volume I have never seen. 
Adonais is based upon Bion's Lament for 
Adonais and Moschus' Lament for Bion, very 
much as Prometheus Unbound is based upon 
^schylus' Prometheus : that is to say, the Greek 
material, while recognizable in many details, is 
so modified by Shelley's treatnient as to be 
recreated. The result is an original modern 
poem. The obligation is, as in the Prome- 
theus Unbound, most felt in the earlier part 
of the work, and finally the poem takes leare 
of the Greek imagery and spirit, and in the 
manner of Spenser and Milton ends in the 
affirmation of the eternal blessedness of the 
spirit lost in the radiance of heavenly being. 
From Bion the picture of Aphrodite's mourn- 
ing, accompanied by the weeping Loves, is trans- 
formed into Urania's mourning, accompanied by 
the Dreams ; from Moschus the picture of the 
lamenting Satyrs, Priapi, Fanes, Fairies, Echo, 
nightingales, sea-birds, and others, is trans- 
foi'med into the sorrow of the Desires, Adora- 
tions, Persuasions, the elements, Echo, the sea- 
son, the flowers, the nightingale and the eagle. 
From Moschus, also, the contrast of the life of 
the year with that of man, and the ascribing of 
the death to poison, and from Bion, the suffer* 



634 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



ing of Urania on her journey, the kiss and the 
ascribing of the death to the ' dragon in his 
den ' are derived, though these elements are 
originally treated, expanded, and varied. In 
Stanza xxviii., with the introduction of the 
circumstances and persons of the time, the con- 
temporary element begins ; the mourning of 
the idealized figures of the poets continues it ; 
the curse upon the destroyer follows ; and the 
final movement of the poem, its paean of im- 
mortality, commencing at Stanza xxxix., is in 
the purely modern spirit, an overflow of 
Shelley's eloquence in his most characteristic 
phrases and ideas, — the best sustained, the 
most condensed, the most charged with purely 
spiritual passion in personal form, of any of his 
poems of hunger for eternity. The develop- 
ment of the poem, beginning with the poignancy 
of human grief rendered through images of 
beauty and the saddening of the things ^ of 
earthly life however lovely, and then changing 
by subtle interpretations of the spirit evoking 
its own eternal nature in brooding over the 
dead form of what it loved, and ending at last 
in the triumphant reversion of its initial grief 
into joy in the presence of the eternal life fore- 
tasted in fixed faith and enduring love even 
here, — this is the classic form of Christian 
elegy. Adonais, as a work of art, effects this 
evolution of life out of death, with more un- 
consciousness, greater unity and steadfast ten- 
dency, with passion more spontaneous and 
irresistible, with melody more plaintive, elo- 
quence more sweet and springing, imagination 
more comprehensive and sublime, than any other 
English elegy. It is artificial only to those 
whose minds are not yet familiarized with the 
language of imagery, — those to whom the gods 
of Greece speak an unknown tongue ; it is cold 
only to those who confound personal grief with 
that universal sorrow for youthful death which 
has been the burden of elegy from, the first ; it is 
dark with metaphysics only to those who have 
not yet caught a single ray from the spirit of 
Plato. What particular mode of being Shelley 
had in mind as the lot of mankind hereafter is 
a matter of small concern. He used, here, the 
imagery of both the theory of pantheism and 
of personal immortality, apparently with in- 
difference, though with a natural poetic clinging 
to the latter, as a thing of the concrete. The 
essential interest he felt was rather in the fact 
than the mode. Further statements, as to this, 
are given below ; but it would, I think, be 
wrong to interpret Adonais as a pantheistic 
poem in any narrow, definite, or dogmatic sense. 
To my mind individuality survives in Shelley's 
conception of the eternal life here, as it does in 
the other illustrations he has given of his faith, 
— say, for example, in the Epipsychidion. 

Page 307. Motto, Plato. Cf. Shelley's 
translation To Stella, p. 519. 

Preface, Moschus, 111-114. ' Poison came, 
Bion, to thy mouth — thou didst know poison. 
To such lips as thine did it come and was not 
sweetened ? What mortal was so cruel that 
could mix poison for thee, or who could give 



thee the venom that heard thy voice ? Surely, 
he had no music in his soul ' (Lang's trans.). 

Twenty-fourth year. Keats was twenty-five 
at his death, which occurred February 23, 1821. 

Quarterly Review, April, 1818. The rupture 
of the blood vessel described below was in no 
way due to the effect of this criticism on Keats' 
spirits. 

Calumniator. Shelley refers to Milman, but 
he was mistaken in thinking him his unknown 
assailant. 

Lavished his fortune. The reference is to the 
family relations of Keats, and is apparently un- 
deserved. 

[The references to Bion and Moschus are to 
Meineke's edition, Berlin, 1856.] 

Page 308. Stanza i. 1. Cf. Bion, 1. 

ii. 1. Cf. Milton, Lycidas, 50. 

ii. 3 Urania. Aphrodite Urania, though bor- 
rowing some elements from the conception of 
the Muse Urania. 

ii. 7. Cf. Moschus, 53. 

iii. 6, 7. Cf . Bion, 55, 96. 

iv. 1. Cf. Moschus, 70. 

iv. 2 He, Milton. 

iv. 9. ' Homer was the first and Dante the 
second epic poet. . . . Milton was the third 
epic poet.' Defense of Poetry. 

V. 3. The humbler poets. 

vi. 3. The reference is to Keats' Isabella. 

vii. 1 Capital. Rome. 

vii. 7. Cf. Bion, 71. 

viii. 5 His extreme way to her dim dwelling- 
place. The dissolution of the body. 

viii. 6 Hunger. Corruption. 

ix. 1 Dreams. Poems. 

X. 1, 2. Cf. Bion, 85. 

xi. 1, 2. Cf. Bion, 83, 84. 

xi. 3-8. Cf. Bion, 80-82. 

xii. 5 death, the dampness of death upon his 
lips. 

xiii. Cf. Moschus, 26-29. 

xiv. 3-6. The image is of a clouded dawn. 
Cf. xli. 6, 7. 

XV. 6-9. Cf. Moschus, 30, 31. 

xvi. 1-3. Cf . Moschus, 31, 32. 

xvi. 5-6. Cf. Moschus, 6, 7, 32. 

xvii. 1. Cf. Moschus, 38-48, 87-93. Sisfgr, 
the reference is to Keats' Ode to the Night' 
ingale. 

xvii. 5. A reminiscence of Milton's Areopa- 
gitica. 

xviii. Cf. Moschus, 101-106. 

xxi. 6 lends what life must borrow. Reality 
is beyond the grave, the eternal substance, and 
mortal life derives its apparent reality from it, 
and is its shadow oidy. 

xxii. 2. Cf. Shelley's translation of Bion, p. 
520, where he introduces this phrase from his 
own invention. 

xxii. 8. A thought of pain roused by mem- 
ory. 

xxiv. Cf. Bion, 21, 22, 65, and Plato, Sym- 
posium, 195 ; the stanza is blended of the three 
sources. 

XXV. 3-5. Death ceased and life came back, 
to the body, or with lees vital imagery in 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 



635 



line 9, ' Death rose and smiled ' — the reani- 
mation of the body being only a phantom of 
life. 

xxvi. Cf. Bion, 43-53. In line 9 the turn 
given to the thought of Bion is singular, and in 
fact the words sound like an anticipation of 
the closing mood of the poem, and a direct ex- 
pression of Shelley's own sadness. 

xxvii. 1. Cf. Bion, (50, 61. 

xxvii. 6 shield, the reference is to Perseus. 

xxviii. 7 Pythian, Byron. The reference is 
to his English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 

xxix. The inferior contemporaries of genius 
share its mortal day of life, but being ephemeral, 
they are forgotten in death, as insects cease at 
sunset, while genius lives on as a star of im- 
mortal fame. The imagery is mixed. 

XXX. 2 magic mantles, the reference is to 
Prospero. 

XXX. 3 Pilgrim, Byron. 

XXX. 8 lyrist, Moore. 

xxxi. 1 one, Shelley. 

xxxiii. Cf. Remembrance, iii. 4. 

xxxiv. 4 unknown land, England. 

xxxiv. 8, 9. Branded like Cain's and ensan- 
guined like Christ's. 

XXXV. 6 He, Leigh Hunt. 

xxxvi. 1-9. Cf. Moschus, 111-114. 

xxxvi. 6 prelude, i. e., what Keats had sung 
was but the prelude to the real song that death 
silenced. 

xxxviii. 4. A reminiscence of Milton's Para- 
dise Lost, iv. 829. With this stanza the poem 
begins the psean of immortality which closes 
it, in harmony with the tradition of Milton and 
Spenser. Shelley resumes again the mood which 
had received such repeated and various illustra- 
tion in his verse, and finally in Epipsychidion, 
and presents the opposition of Life to Death as 
the shadow to the substance, the night to the 
day, and declares the absorption of the soul of 
Keats into the Spiritual Power whose mani- 
festations in our knowledge are Life, Beauty, 
and Love. Of the state of the dead, as in- 
dividuals, he refrains from speaking, as he had 
refrained from the time of The Sunset, leav- 
ing it in uncertainty ; of the permanence of the 
spirit in the eternal world he once more and for 
the last time speaks with passionate conviction, 
both as the infinite of being in original creative 
activity and as the hope, faith, and home of 
the human soul. 

xl. Ackermann compares Spenser, The Shep- 
heardes Calendar, xi. The resemblance is great ; 
and so, in the case of other passages from this 
lament, the parallelism is clear ; but I do not 
believe that the poem of Spenser was in Shel- 
ley's mind except secondarily through Milton's 
echoes of it in Lycidas. 

xlii. The pantheistic suggestion in this and 
the following stanzas is strong ; but it cannot 
be held that Shelley commits himself definitely 
to the theory of pantheism here any more than 
to the theory of individual immortality in xlv. 
and elsewhere. In xlii. 1-5 Shelley appears to 
have in mind the immortality of Keats through 
his poetry, which in interpreting Nature has 



mingled with it, and become in a sense a part 
of it (cf. Coleridge, The Nightingale, 30-33) 
to the apprehension of the mind that has been 
fed upon his music and imagination ; and from 
this conception the passage is easy for Shelley 
to restate the idea in the higher and abstract 
terms of a union of Keats with the operant 
might of that power ' which has withdrawn his 
being to its own,' the same, of course, with 
' the burning fountain ' of xxxviii. 

xliii. The stanza is a repetition of the pre- 
ceding ; lines 1, 2 being identical with lines 1-5 
in the former stanza, and lines 2-9 being identi- 
cal with lines 6-9 of the former. The process of 
the operation of the ' One Spirit ' is explained, 
— namely, that it reveals itself according to the 
nature of its medium. The union of the soul 
of Keats primarily with the Eternal Spirit, and 
secondarily with Nature, through which that 
Spirit is revealed, is clearly affirmed ; but 
the loss of individuality is not affirmed, but 
on the contrary the suggestion of it remains in 
xlii. 2, xliv. 8, and is at once developed, with 
no sense of inconsistetacy, in xlv., xlvi. and is 
still felt as an element of the verse to the last 
line of the poem. The fact seems to be, as 
stated above, that Shelley used the imagery of 
pantheism and of personal immortality indiffer- 
ently to express his faith in the continuance of 
the soul under unknown conditions of ex- 
istence. 

xliv. 7 The conflict of ' life and love ' for 
the youth is familiar to Shelley's thought from 
the first. Cf. Epipsychidion, note. 

xlv. 1. Those whom early death overtook 
before the accomplishment of their genius, of 
whom the three named are types. 

xlvi. 3. Cf. LiNEfe ON THE EUGANEAN 

Hills, 269. 

xlvi. 9. The reference is to Plato's epigram- 
Cf . SheUey's trans, p. 51C. 

xlvii. The germ of this stanza may, perhaps, 
be found in Coleridge's Ode to France, V. 
18-20 : 

' Yet while I stood and gazed, my temples bare. 
And shot my being through earth, sea and air, 
Possessing all things with intensest love.' 

The idea of the stanza seems to lie in the oppo- 
sition between the insignificance of the individ- 
ual and the infinity of his powers of compre- 
hension and sympathy, which is, perhaps, the 
more obvious interpretation. It may be, how- 
ever, that Shelley here indicates a way of ap- 
proaching before death the mystical union 
which is in his thoughts ; the idea would then 
be, — shoot thy being through the universe, and 
then, still comprehending all things in thy spirit, 
gather the universe back into thy individuality 
as a mortal in time, and standing thus at the 
utmost limit of earthly being, on the brink of 
eternity, fear lest at the moment of such exalta- 
tion thou shouldst sink in despair with a heavy 
heart, as Shelley so often represents such fail* 
ure at the climax of emotion, in the Epipsy- 
chidion, the Prometheus Unbound, the Ode 
TO Liberty, and elsewhere. 



636 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



xlviii. 8-9. Cf. Epipsychidion, 209-212. 

xlix. 7 slope, the Roman cemetery. Cf . Pre- 
face, pp. oU7, 308. blielley also describes it in 
a letter to Peacock, December 22, 1818: ' The 
English burying-place is a green slope near the 
walls, under the pyramidal tomb of Cestius, 
and is, I think, the most beautiful and solenin 
cemetery 1 ever beheld. To see the sun shining 
on its bright grass, fresh, when we visited it, 
with the autumnal dews, and hear the whisper- 
ing of the wind among the leaves of the trees 
which have overgrown the tomb of Cestius, 
and the soil which is stirring in the sun-warm 
earth, and to mark the tombs, mostly of women 
and young people who were buried there, one 
might, if one were to die, desire the sleep they 
seem to sleep. 8uch is the human mind, and 
so it peoples with its wishes vacancy and obliv- 
ion.' 

1. 3. The tomb of Cestius. 

li. 3-5. Inquire not into another's grief. 
There may be an obscure reference to the fact 
that Shelley's child, William, was buried there. 

lii. The opposition of the permanent to the 
transitory, of the ever shining light to the sha- 
dows of earthly life, of the ' white radiance of 
Eternity ' to the prismatic colors of its ' por- 
tions ' in time ; Death as the Liberator and Re- 
storer of the soul to true being, whose glory 
transcends its revelation in nature and the 
forms of art, — over these cardinal convictions 
of his poetry, long familiarized to his imagina- 
tion, Shelley throws for the last time, the veil 
of words. 

liii. The poem here becomes purely personal, 
and after the self -portraiture of this stanza, rises 
with vital lyric passion to its outburst of min- 
gled worship, prophecy, and aspiration driving 
through the gulf of death on the verge of 
eternal life. 

liv. The clearest, most comprehensive and 
most condensed expression of Shelley's concep- 
tion of the infinite and its presence and operation 
in this life. 

liv. 5-7. Cf . xliii. 5-8. 

Iv. 1 breath, the Infinite. 

Iv. 4. The reference to his own troubled 
career is clear. 

Iv. 9 Beacons, lights homeward. 

Page 317. Hellas. The sources of this 
drama have been studied by Dr. Richard 
Ackerraann in his Quellen, Vorhilder, Stoffe zu 
Shelley'' s Poetischen Werken, 1890. Hellas is 
based on ^schylus' Per see, so far as its struc- 
ture is concerned, and is indebted to that drama 
for some details. As in his other borrowings 
from the Greek, however, Shelley recreated the 
material into an original modern poem. In this 
instance, owing perhaps to the historical char- 
acter of its main matter, he departs less from 
his model, and does not develop the work at its 
close into ' something new and strange,' as in 
the Prometheus Unbound and Adonais. He 
introduces, on the lips of the Wandering Jew, 
a metaphysical theory of existence, but does 
not evolve it to further issues of thought or im- 
agination, and at the end he takes leaye of the 



actual Greece and sings a hymn of the millen- 
nial land after the famous eclogue of Virgil. 
These are the two principal points in which he 
varies frona the ^schylean model, unless the 
opening after Calderon be also included. 

In the first instance Shelley apparently re- 
turned to his projected drama on the Book of 
Job, and adapting this idea to the situation of 
Greece attempted to blend the two subjects. 
The Prologue, rescued from his note-books by 
Dr. Garnett, represents this scheme. In it 
Christ appears as the genius presiding over the 
better fate of mankind, concentrating under 
his power as the incarnating spirit of civiliza- 
tion all those ideas of Freedom, Love, and so- 
cial good which were dearest to Shelley ; Satan 
similarly presides over their opposites, slavery, 
hatred, wrong in all its forms ; and these two 
' mighty opposites ' are conceived, seemingly, 
after the analogy of the angelic intelligences 
animating and guiding the spheres, as each the 
spirit of his own orb of energy. Dr. Garnett 
cites, appositely, a passage from Johnson on 
Dryden, dealing with a similar idea ; but it is 
not shown, nor does it seem to me at all likely, 
that Shelley knew the passage. Very little of 
the drama in this form was written, and Shel- 
ley abandoned it for the less ambitious shape 
in which Hellas was created. The majesty 
of the persons, the grandeur of the conception, 
opening fresh avenues for poetic originality un- 
tried in any literature, and the loftiness of the 
execution in the few score lines he wrote, con- 
vince me that, had Shelley been equal to the 
task, this work would have far surpassed all 
his other poetry, including the Prometheus 
Unbound, in sublime and novel power. And 
after long familiarity with his works I may 
perhaps be pardoned for owning that his fac- 
ulty of creative imagination seems to me to ex- 
ceed immeasurably his ability to execute con- 
ception. The weakness under which he so often 
describes himself as sinking was the weight of 
power, — of a rapid and intense creative faculty, 
as intellectxial as it was imaginative, as con- 
ci'ete in operation as it was universal in inten- 
tion, as rich in multitude as in unity, and con- 
stituting a power of genius beyond his mortal 
strength to sustain, both physically and artis- 
tically. He, for some reason, did not go on to 
this new task ; and in the Hellas he wrote, 
which derives its strength from his enthusiasm 
for freedom in practical struggle and his unfail- 
ing dream of good for man, there are, I think 
signs of the lassitude of his power in the unus- 
ual way in which he leans not only on ^schy- 
lus, but on Shakspere, Virgil, and others ; in 
the repetition beyond his wont of ideas and im- 
ages of his own former works, and in the use of 
accustomed phrases in his diction. The drama 
is, it is true, an improvisation, and as such, rap- 
idly done, and naturally it is studded in these 
ways with reminiscences of others and of him- 
self in style and matter ; but, charged as it is 
with the love of liberty, the adoration of ancient 
Greece, and the hope of peace, and instinct as 
its choruses are with haunting melody of tha.t 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



637 



strange sort where music seems to outvalue the 
words as a means of expression of the mood, 
yet one feels in it a wearied pulse, though the 
pulse still of one of ' the sons of hght.' 

Shelley's Notes on Hellas. 

Line 60. Milan was the centre of the resist- 
ance of the Lombard league against the Aus- 
trian tyrant. Frederic Barbarossa burned the 
city to the ground, bnt liberty lived in its ashes, 
and it rose like an exhalation from its ruin. !See 
Sismondi's Histoire des Hepubliques Italiennes, 
a book which has done much towards awaken- 
ing the ItaUans to an imitation of their great 
ancestors. 

Line 197. The popular notions of Chris- 
tianity are represented in this chorus as true in 
their relation to the worship they superseded, 
and that which in all probability they will su- 
persede, without considering their merits in a 
relation more universal. The first stanza con- 
trasts the immortality of the living and think- 
ing beings which inhabit the planets, and to use 
a common and inadequate phrase, clothe them- 
selves in matter , with the transience of the no- 
blest manifestations of the external world. 

The concluding verses indicate a progressive 
state of more or less exalted existence, accord- 
ing to the degree of perfection which every dis- 
tinct intelligence may have attained. Let it 
not be supposed that I mean to dogmatize upon 
a subject concerning which all men are equally 
ignorant, or that I think the Gordian knot of 
the origin of evil can be disentangled by that 
or any similar assertions. The received hypo- 
thesis of a Being, resembling men in the moral 
attributes of his nature, having called us out 
of non-existence, and after inflicting on us the 
misery of the commission of error, should su- 
peradd that of the punishment and the priva- 
tions consequent upon it, still would remain 
inexplicable and incredible. That there is a 
true solution of the riddle, and that in our pre- 
sent state that solution is unattainable by us, 
are propositions which may be regarded as 
equally certain : meanwhile, as it is the province 
of the poet to attach himself to those ideas 
which exalt and ennoble humanity, let him be 
permitted to have conjectured the condition of 
that futurity towards which we are all impelled 
by an inextinguishable thirst for immortality. 
Until better arguments can be produced than 
sophisms which disgrace the cause, this desire 
itself must remain the strongest and the only 
presumption that eternity is the inheritance of 
every thinking being. 

Line 245. The Greek Patriarch, after having 
been compelled to fulminate an anathema 
against the insurgents, was put to death by the 
Turks. 

Fortunately the Greeks have been taught that 
they cannot buy security by degradation, and 
the Turks, though equally cruel, are less cun- 
ning than the smooth-faced tyrants of Europe, 
As to the anathema, his Holiness might as well 
have thuown his mitre at Mount Athos for any 
^fEect that it produced. The chiefs of the 



Greeks are almost all men of comprehension 
and enlightened views on religion and poli- 
tics. 

Line 563. A Greek who had been Lord By- 
ron's servant commands the insurgents in 
Attica. This Greek, Lord Byron informs me, 
though a poet and an enthusiastic patriot, gave 
him rather the idea of a timid and unenterpris- 
ing person. It appears that circumstances make 
men what they are, and that we all contain the 
germ of a degree of degradation or of greatness 
whose connection with our character is deter- 
mined by events. 

Line 598. It is reported that this Messiah 
had arrived at a seaport near Lacedsemon in an 
American brig. The association of names and 
ideas is irresistibly ludicrous, but the preval- 
ence of such a rumor strongly marks the state 
of popular enthusiasm in Greece. 

Line 815. For the vision of Mahmud of the 
taking of Constantinople in 1453, see Gibbon's 
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire^ vol. xii. 
p. 223. 

The manner of the invocation of the spirit of 
Mahomet the Second will be censured as over 
subtle. I could easily have made the Jew a 
regular conjurer, and the Phantom an ordinary 
ghost. I have preferred to represent the Jew 
as disclaiming all pretension, or even belief, in 
supernatural agency, and as tempting Mahmud 
to that state of mind in which ideas may be 
supposed to assume the force of sensations 
through the confusion of thought with the ob- 
jects of thought, and the excess of passion ani- 
mating the creations of imagination. 

It is a sort of natural magic, susceptible of 
being exercised in a degree by any one who 
should have made himself master of the secret 
associations of another's thoughts. 

Line 1060. The final chorus is indistinct and 
obscure, as the event of the living drama whose 
arrival it foretells. Prophecies of wars, and 
rumors of wars, etc., may safely be made by 
poet or prophet in any age, but to anticipate, 
however darkly, a period of regeneration and 
happiness is a more hazardous exercise of the 
faculty which bards possess or feign. It will 
remind the reader ' magno nee proximo inter- 
vallo ' of Isaiah and Virgil, whose ardent spirits, 
overleaping the actual reign of evil which we 
endure and bewail, already saw the possible 
and perhaps approaching state of society in 
which the ' lion shall lie down with the lamb,'' 
and ' omnis feret omnia tellus.' Let these 
great names be my authority and my excuse. 

Line 1090. Saturn and Love were among the 
deities of a real or imaginary state of innocence 
and happiness. All those who fell, or the Gods 
of Greece, Asia, and Egypt ; the One who rose, 
or Jesus Christ, at whose appearance the idols 
of the Pagan World were amerced of their wor- 
ship ; and the many unsubdued, or the monstrous 
objects of the idolatry of China, India, the 
Antarctic islands, and the native tribes of 
America, certainly have reigned over the un- 
derstandings of men in conjunction or in suc- 
cession, during periods in which all we know of 



638 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



evil has been in a state of portentous, and, until 
the revival of learning and the arts, perpetually 
increasing activity. The Grecian gods seem 
indeed to have been personally more innocent, 
although it cannot be said, that as far as tem- 
perance and chastity are concerned, they gave 
so edifying an example as their successor. The 
sublime human character of Jesus Christ was 
deformed by an imputed identification with a 
power who tempted, betrayed, and punished 
the innocent beings who were called into exist- 
ence by his sole wiU ; and for the period of a 
thousand years, the spirit of this most just, wise, 
and benevolent of men has been propitiated 
with myriads of hecatombs of those who ap- 
proached the nearest to his innocence and wis- 
dom, sacrificed under every aggravation of 
atrocity and variety of torture. The horrors 
of the Mexican, the Peruvian, and the Indian 
superstitions are well known. 

Page 317. Hellas. The motto is the one 
which Shelley asked Peacock to have placed on 
two seals, ' one smaller and the other hand- 
somer ; the device a dove with outspread wings, 
and this motto round it.' 

Page 318. Dedication. Mavrocordato, a 
member of Shelley's Pisan circle of friends, of 
whom Shelley repeatedly wrote with enthu- 
siam. He read Antigone with Mary, and the 
Agamemnon and Paradise Lost with Shelley. 

Preface. Goat-song, The Cenci. 

Page 320. Prologue. Dr. Garnett's note, 
on first publishing this fragment, g^ives all 
needed information about it. ' Mrs. Shelley 
informs us, in her Note on the Prometheus Un- 
bound, that at the time of her husband's arrival 
in Italy, he meditated the production of three 
dramas. One of these was the Prometheus it- 
self ; the second, a drama on the subject of 
Tasso's madness ; the third, one founded on 
the Book of Job; "of which," she adds, "he 
never abandoned the idea." That this was the 
case will be apparent from the following newly- 
discovered fragment, which may have been, as 
I have on the whole preferred to describe it, an 
unfinished Prologue to Hellas, or perhaps the 
original sketch of that work, discarded for the 
existing more dramatic, but less ambitious ver- 
sion, for which the Persce of ^schylus evi- 
dently supplied the model. It is written in the 
same book as the original MS. of Hellas, and so 
blended with this as to be only separable after 
a very minute examination. Few even of Shel- 
ley's rough drafts have proved more difficult to 
decipher or connect ; numerous chasms will be 
observed which, with every diligence, it has 
proved impossible to fill up ; the correct reading 
of niany printed lines is far from certain ; and 
the imperfection of some passages is such as to 
have occasioned their entire omission. Never- 
theless, I am confident that the unpolished 
and mutilated remnant will be accepted as a 
worthy emanation of one of Shelley's sublimest 
moods, and a noble earnest of what he might 
have accomplished, could he have executed his 
ariginal design of founding a drama on the 



Book of Job. Weak health, variable spirits, 
and, above all, the absence of encouragement, 
must be enumerated as chief among the causes 
which have deprived our literature of so mag- 
nificent a work. 

' Besides the evident imitation of the Book of 
Job, the resemblance of the first draft of Hellas 
to the machinery of Dryden's intended epic is 
to be noted. "He gives," says Johnson, sum- 
marizing Dryden's preface to his translation of 
Juvenal, " an account of the design which he 
had once formed to write an epic poem on the 
actions either of Arthur or the Black Prince. 
He considered the epic as necessarily involving 
some kind of supernatural agency, and had 
imagined a new kind of contest between the 
guardian angels of kingdoms, of which he 
conceived that each might be represented 
zealous for his charge without any intended op- 
position to the purposes of the Supreme Being, 
of which all created minds must in part be 
ignorant. 

' " This is the most reasonable scheme of 
celestial interposition that ever was formed." ' 

[The references to -^sehylus below are to 
Paley's third edition, London, 1870.] 

Page 320. Prologue. 

Line 69 giant Poivers, cf . Dr. Garnett's note 
above. 

Line 87 Aurora, Greece. 

Line 99. Cf . Epipsychidion, note. 

Line 107. The familiar image of The RE" 
VOLT OF Islam, I. 

Line 139. The doctrine of the Furies in Pro- 
metheus Unbound. 

Line 146. A reminiscence of Lucretius, I. 64. 

Page 322. Chorus. Cf . Calderon, El Principe 
Constante, I. 

Line 46. Cf. Adonais, xix. 4. 

Line 56. Cf . -^schylus, Agamemnon, 272. 

Line 70 Atlantis, America. 

Line 95 thy. Freedom's. 

Line 128. Cf. ^schylus, Persce, 178. 

Line 133. Ahasuerus, the Wandering Jew. 

Line 177. Cf . Prometheus Unbound, II. i. 
156.^ 

Line 189. A reminiscence of Prometheus 
Unbound, III. i. 

Line 192. Cf. Plato, Republic, VI. 

Line 195. Cf . Bacon, Essays, Of Empire. 

Line 209. The theory here stated is the or- 
dinary belief of transmigration. 

Line 211 A power, Christ. 

Line 224. The reference is k) the Cross of 
Constantine. 

Line 230. Cf. Milton, Ode on the Nativity ^ 

XIX .""XXl. 

Line 266. Cf . Prologue, 172. 

Line 303 Queen, England. 

Line 307. Cf . ^schylus, Persce^ 207-212. 

Line 373. Cf. ^schylus, Persce, 449 et seq. 

Line 447. Cf. Prologue, 101. 

Line 476. Cf . ^schylus, Persce, 355-432, espe< 
cially line 486 with 410, 494 with 408, 503 with 
393, 505 with 420. 

Line 587. Cf. Ode to Liberty, xiii. 3-7. 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



639 



Line 591. Santons, a sect of enthusiasts in- 
Spired by divine love and regarded as saints. 

Line 696. The main metaphysical idea of the 
poem, the primacy of thought and its sole real- 
ity, begins here. 

Line 701. Cf . Prologue, 9. 

Line 711. Cf. Prologue, 121. 

Line 729. Cf . ^schylus, Agamemnon, 734-735. 
Shelley quotes the passage in a letter to his 
wife, August 10, 1821. 

Lines 767-806 The speech develops the philo- 
sophical theory alluded to above, line 696, and 
is variously reminiscent of Shakspere (as are 
other passages of the drama) in style and dic- 
tion. 

Line 771. Cf. Prologue, 19. 

Lines 814-841. Cf. Gibbon, DecZine and Fall 
of the Roman Empire, ch. 68. 

Line 852-854. Cf. Prologue, 161. 

Line 860. The Phantom is possibly suggested 
by the figure of Darius in the Persce. The pas- 
sage has analogies with Prometheus Un- 
bound, I. 

Line 906. The familiar image from Plato, 
Symposium, 195. 

Line 925. Cf . The Cenci, III. i. 247, and note. 

Line 943. Cf . Prometheus Unbound, IV. 
444. 

Line 985. The reference is to the Shield of 
Arthur, Spenser, Faerie Queene, Bk. I. passim. 

Line 989. The Retreat of the Ten Thousand 
under Xenophon, told in the Anabasis. 

Line 1030 Evening land. Here and in the fol- 
lowing lines, America appears to furnish the 
elements of the idealized new age, which soon 
changes imaginatively into a glorification of a 
newly arisen ideal Greece. 

Line 1060 Chorus. Cf . Virgil, Eclogues, iv. 
and Byron's Isles of Greece. 

Page 340. To . Cf . Peter Bell the 

Third, V. i. note. 

342. To Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, 
i. 3 fear, Rossetti suggests yearn to amend a 
plainly corrupt passage. 

344. To Wordsworth, cf . Peter Bell 
the Third, IV. ix. note. 

345. Lines. If the poem refers to Harriet 
it is dated a year too early. 

345. The Sunset, line 4. Cf. Epipsychi- 
DiON, note. 

Line 22. Forman conjectures I never saw the 
sunrise ? we will wake, substituting a melodra- 
matic for a natural effect. 

346. Hymn to Intellectual Beauty, cf. 
Epipsychidion, note. Mrs. Shelley's note is 
as follows : ' He spent the summer on the 
shores of the Lake of Geneva. The Hymn to 
Intellectual Beauty was conceived during his 
voyage round the Lake with Lord Byron. He 
occupied himself during this voyage by reading 
the Nouvelle Helo'ise for the first time. The 
reading it on the very spot where the scenes are 
laid, added to the interest ; and he was at once 
surprised and charmed by the passionate elo- 
quence and earnest enthralling interest that 
pervades this work. There was something in 



the character of Saint-Preux, in his abnegation 
of self, and in the worship he paid to Love, 
that coincided with Shelley's own disposition ; 
and, though differing in many of the views, and 
shocked by others, yet the effect of the whole 
was fascmating and delightful.' Ackermann 
refers to Spenser's Hymns as a source, but with- 
out plausibility. Cf . The Zucca. 

Stanza i. 1. Cf . The Revolt of Islam, VI. 
xxxviii. 1. 

Stanza iv. 1. Self-esteem, the use of Self-esteem 
and Self-contempt as measures of happiness and 
misery is constant from the earliest verse to 
Adonais, and is characteristic of his moral 
ideal. Cf. Prometheus Unbound, p)assim. 

Stanza v. Cf . The Revolt of Islam, Dedi- 
cation, iii.-v. 

Stanza vii. 12. The line is, perhaps, the sim- 
plest and noblest statement of Shelley's ideal 
of his own life. 

Page 347. Mont Blanc, i. The metaphysi- 
cal intention of the symbol should be remem- 
bered as a part of the entire poem and as dif- 
ferentiating its scope from that of Coleridge on 
the same subject. 

Line 79. But for such faith, the Boscombp 
MS. reads In such a faith, which yields the only 
intelligible meaning. The faith of Shelley's 
poetic age in the power of nature over human 
life could hardly find more startling statement 
than in the next two lines. 

Line 96. This is an anticipation of the con- 
ception imaginatively defined in Demogorgon 
(cf. lines 139-141 below). This poem and the 
preceding Hymn are forerunners of the main 
lines of thought in the Prometheus Un- 
bound. 

Page 352. To Constantia. The poem, as 
a whole, is a forerunner of Prometheus Un- 
bound, in its imagery of music as a power of 
motion in stanza iv., and in its diction (e. g. iii. 
2) as well as in its lyrical rapture. The remi- 
niscences of Plato and Lucretius in stanza ii. 7 
and 11 are obvious. In the Harvard MS. the 
last stanza is first, but this may represent rather 
the order of composition than of true arrange- 
ment ; certainly it belongs last, as it is the cli- 
max of emotion. 

Page 353. To THE Lord Chancellor, i. 4. 
The star-chamber. 

iv. 3 cowl, cf . Dante, Inferno, XXIII. 

xvi. 1. The close of the curse is character- 
istic of Shelley's moral ideal. In a similar 
way he brings his political odes, several of which 
are odes of agitation, such as Ode written 
October, 1819, and the Ode to Naples to an 
end in counsels of love, forgiveness, and brother- 
hood after the storm of execration or of incite- 
ment had been exhausted in the earlier part. 

Page 354. To William Shelley. Mrs. 
Shelley adds to her note : ' When afterward 
this child died at Rome, he wrote, apropos of 
the English burying-ground in that city, " This 
spot is the repository of a sacred loss, of which 
the yearnings of a parent's heart are now pro- 
phetic ; he is rendered immortal by love as his 
memory is by death. My beloved child lies 



640 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



buried here. I envy death the body far less 
thau the oppressors the minds of those whom 
they have torn from me. The one can kill only 
the body, the other crushes the affections," ' 

Stanza iv. Cf . Kosalind and Helen, 894r- 
901. 

Page 358. On a Faded Violet. Cf. To 
Sophia, Head-note. 

Stanza i. In the later edition of Mrs. Shel- 
ley this stanza reads : 

The colour from the flower is gone 

Which like thy sweet eyes smiled on me ; 

The odour from the flower is flown 
Which breathed of tliee and only thee. 

In the next stanza she also reads withered for 
shrivelled. Her version is sustained by the Ox- 
ford MS. described by Zupitza. The text 
given is that of Hunt, 1821, Mrs. Shelley, 1824, 
and of the MS. as described by Rossetti. 

Page 358. Lines written among the Eu- 
GANEAN Hills. 

Line 175 songs. Forman conjectures sons, 
which destroys the highly imaginative unity of 
the figure and substitutes a mere mixed meta- 
phor therefor. Byron is referred to. 

Line 220. Cf . GEdipus Tyrannus, II. 60. 

Line 319. Cf. The Revolt of Islam, II. 
XXX. 2. 

Line 344. Cf. Epipsychidion, note. 

Page 362. Invocation to Misery. The 
story referred to in the Head-note was first told 
by Medwin. He writes, ' Had she [Mrs. Shel- 
ley] been able to disentangle the threads of the 
mystery, she would have attributed his feelings 
to more than purely physical causes. Among 
the verses which she had probably never seen 
till they appeared in print was the Invocation to 
Misery, an idea taken from Shakespeare — 
making love to Misery, betokening his soul 
lacerated to rawness by the tragic event above 
detailed — the death of his unknown adorer.' 
Life, i. 330, 331. He refers to a story, previ- 
ously told by him in The Angler in Wales, ii. 
194, related by Shelley to him and Byron, that 
* the night before his departure from London 
in 1S14 [1816], he received a visit from a mar- 
ried lady, young, handsome, and of noble con- 
nections, and whose disappearance from the 
world of fashion, in which she moved, may 
furnish to those curious in such inquiries a clue 
to her identity ; ' and he goes on to describe 
how, in spite of Shelley's entreaty and unknown 
to him, this lady followed him to the continent, 
kept near him, and at Naples, in this year, 
met him, told her wandering devotion, and 
there died (Life, i. 324-329). Medwin ascribes 
to this incident the next poem, and also the 
lines On a Faded Violet. Rossetti (i. 90) 
Bays he is ' assured on good authority ' that 
Medwin's connecting Misery with these events 
is 'not correct.' Lady Shelley says : 'Of this 
strange narrative it will be sufficient to say 
here that not the slightest allusion to it is to be 
found in any of the family documents' {Shel- 
ley Memorials, p. 92). Rossetti connects with 
the story Shelley's letter to Peacock, May, 



1820, in which he refers to his health as affected 
' by certain moral causes,' and also his letter to 
Oilier, December 15, 1819, in which he ex- 
presses his intention to ' write three other 
poems [besides Julian and Maddalo] the 
scenes of which will be laid at Rome, Florence, 
and Naples, but the subjects of which will be 
all drawn from dreadful or beautiful realities, 
as that of this was.' Miss Clairmont asserted 
that she knew the lady's name and had seen 
her. At Naples there died a little girl who was 
to some extent in Shelley's charge, and of whom 
he wrote with feeling. Dowden (ii. 252, 253) 
suggests some connection between the two inci- 
dents. 

Page 367. Ode to the West Wind. Cf. 
The Revolt of Islam, IX. xxi.-xxv. 

369. An Ode. Cf . Stanza, p. 436, and To 
the Lord Chancellor, xvi. 1, note. 

370. The Indian Serenade. The most 
important variations of the text are ii. 3, and 
the champak'' s, iii. 7, press it to thine own again ; 
andiii. 8, must break, from the Browning MS. 

ii. 3. ' The buchampaca, the flower of the 
dawn, whose vestal buds blow with the sun's 
first ray, and fade and die beneath his meridian 
beam, leaving only their odour to survive their 
transient blooms.' Miss Owenson, The Mission- 
ary, ch. vi. p. 59 ; cf . also ch. vii. pp. 75, 76, and 
Alastor, 400, note. 

Page 371. Love's Philosophy. A MS. 
sent to Miss Stacey December 29, 1820, gives 
two interesting variations : i. 7, Li one spirit 
meet and ; ii. 7, What is all this sweet work worth. 
These readings are adopted by Forman and 
Dowden. Other variations exist. 

Page 376. The Sensitive Plant, III. 66. 
The first edition, 1820, inserts the following : 

Their moss rotted off them, flake by flake, 
Till the thick stalk stuck like a murderer's stake, 
Where rags of loose flesh yet tremble on high, 
Infecting the winds that wander by. 

The stanza is cancelled in the Harvard MS. and 
omitted by Mrs. Shelley, 1839. It is included 
by Rossetti and Forman. 

Page .381. To A Skylark. The interesting 
Harvard MS. of this poem may be found in fac- 
simile in the Harvard University Library Bibli- 
ographical Contributions, No. 35. Two emenda- 
tions have been suggested ; the transference of 
the semicolon, line 8, to the end of the previous 
line ; and embodied for unbodied, line 15. Neither 
has been adopted by editors. 

Page 382. Ode to Liberty. The poem is 
in the mood of Prometheus Unbound, of 
which it is reminiscent. 

iii. 6. Cf . Prometheus Unbound, II. iv. 49. 

V. 10. Cf. Prometheus Unbound, III. iv. 
199, note. 

vi. 1-4. Cf . Evening : Ponte al Make, 
Pisa, iii. 1-4. 

vii. 2. Shelley's note : ' See the Bacchce of 
Euripides.' 

viii. 14 The Galilean serpent, Christianity 
in its mediaeval forms. 

xii. 10 Anarch, Napoleon. 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



641 



xiii. 3-7. C£. Hellas, I. 587. 
xiii. 12-15 Twins, England and Spain ; West, 
America ; Impress . . . conceal, the sense 
may be, impress us with your past which time 
cannot conceal. The passage is variously ex- 
plained by kjwinburne, Forman, and Rossetti. 
The suggested emendation of as for us, is not 
of itself sufficient to clai-ify the construction 
or meaning, but is possibly correct. Any ex- 
planation of the text appears unsatisfactory. 

xvii. 9 intercessor. Cf. Prometheus Un- 
bound, III. iii. 49-60 ; Ode to Naples, (59. 
The idea is suggested by Plato's theoi'ies in the 
Phcedrus and Symposium; and is much de- 
veloped by kShelley. Cf. Prince Athanase, 
II. 106-113, note. 

Page 387. Arethusa. This and the follow- 
ing poem were written to be inserted in a drama 
entitled Proserpine, as the Hymns to Apollo 
and Pan were similarly written for a drama 
called Midas. Both dramas were the work of 
Williams. Zupitza describes the MSS. of these 
at length, with extracts, in Archiv fnr das Stu- 
dium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen, 
Band xciv. Heft 1. 

II. 8. The reading unsealed for concealed, is 
given by Zupitza as that of the Oxford MS. ; 
he interprets the passage ' the wind unsealed in 
the rear the urns of the snoAv,' it being pleonas- 
tic, and the urns meaning the snow-springs. 

Page 388. Song of Proserpine, cf. Are- 
thusa, note. 

Page 388. Hymn of Apollo, cf . Arethusa, 
note. 

Stanza vi. 6 its for their is given by Zupitza 
as the reading of the Oxford MS. 

Page 389. Hymn of Pan, cf. Arethusa, 
note. 

Stanza i. 5, 12. Zupitza gives listening my for 
listening to my, as the reading of the Oxford MS. 

Stanzas ii., iii. Cf. Virgil, Eclogues, vi. 

Page 388. The Question, ii. 7, cf. Coleridge, 
To a Young Friend, 37, ' the rock^s collected 
tears."* The reading heaven-collected, Mrs. Shel- 
ley, 1824, adopted by Forman, is improbable in 
view of the citation, while the text is supported 
by the first issue of Hunt and the Harvard and 
OUier MSS. 

Page 390. Letter to Maria Gisborne. 

Line 75. The hoot and the hollow screw are 
the same. 

Line 77 Henry, Mr. Reveley, Mrs. Gisborne's 
son. 

Line 130. ' The Libecchio here howls like a 
chorus of fiends all day.' Shelley to Peacock, 
July 12, 1820. 

Line 185. Mrs. Gisborne read Calderon with 
him. 

Line 195. Cf. Time, 7. 

Line 202. Cf. Peter Bell the Third, V. 
i. 3, note. 

Line 226 Hogg, Thomas Jefferson Hqgg, 
Shelley's friend, and biographer of his Oxford 
days. 

Line 233 Peacock, Thomas Love Peacock, 
the novelist. The play on the name in the next 
line IS obvious. 



Line 250 Horace S7nith, perhaps the wisest 
and best friend Shelley had. 

Line 313. Shelley's note : ' 'I/aepog, from which 
the river Himei'a was named, is, with some 
slight shade of difference, a synonym of 
Love.' 

Page 395. Ode to Naples. The Oxford 
MS. is fully described by Zupitza. 

Shelley's Notes : 
Line 1. Pompeii. 
Line 39. Homer and Virgil. 
Line 104. ^«a, the island of Circe. 
Line 112. The viper was the armorial device 
of the Visconti, tyrants of Milan. 

Line 45. Zupitza gives sunhright for sunlit as 
the reading of the Oxford MS. 

Line 69. Cf. Ode to Liberty, xvii. 9, note. 

Line 109. Cf . Hellas, Shelley's notes, line 60. 

Page 401. Good-night. A version known as 
the Stacey MS. is followed by Rossetti. It 
varies from the text as follows : 

i. 1, Good-night? no, love ! the night is ill 

ii. 1, How were the night without thee good 

iii. 1, The hearts that on each other beat 

3, Have nights as good as they are sweet 

4, But never say good-night 

This version is poetically inferior, and may or 
may not represent Shelley's final choice for 
publication. The matter being uncertain, it 
seems best to retain the better form, especially 
as it is the one that has grown familiar, and is 
well supported by the authority of the Harvard 
MS. as well as by the first editors, Hunt and 
Mrs. Shelley. 

Page 403. From the Arabic. Medwin gives 
Hamilton's Antar as the source of these lines, 
but the passage has not been identified. 

Page 403. To Night, i. 1 o'e?-, the reading is 
from the Harvard MS. 

ii. 3. The image is familiar in Shelley's verse. 
Cf. Alastor, 337, note. 

Page 406. Sonnet. Entitled in the Harvard 
MS., Sonnet to the Republic of Bene- 

VENTO. 

Page 407. Another Version. From the 
Trelawny MS., of Williams's play. 

Page 407. Evening : Ponte al Mare, Pisa, 
iv. 2. The Boscombe MS. reads cinereous for 
enormous, and is followed by Rossetti, Forman, 
and Dowden. 

Page 408. Remembrance. Another version, 
known as the Trelawny MS., gives the follow- 
ing variations : 

i. 2, 3, transpose. 

5-7, As the earth when leaves are dead, 
As the night when sleep is sped, 
As the heart when joy is fled 

8, alone, alone. 

ii. 2, her. 

5, My heart to-day desires to-morrow, 
iii. 4, Sadder flowers find for me. 

8, a hope, a fear. 

The text follows the Houghton MS., a copy 
written on a fly-leaf of Adonais by SheUey. 
Page 409. To Edward Williams. Rossetti 



642 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



gives the following letter from Shelley to Wil- 
liams : 

' My dear Williams : Looking over the port- 
folio in which my friend used to keep his verses, 
and in which those I sent you the other day 
were found, I have lit upon these ; which, as 
they are too dismal for me to keep, I send you. 
If any of the stanzas should please you, you 
may read them to Jane, but to no one else. 
And yet, on second thoughts, I had rather you 
would not. Yours ever affectionately, P. B. S.' 
Williams notes in his journal, Saturday, Jan- 
uary 26, 1822 : ' S. sent us some beautiful but 
too melancholy lines C' The Serpent is shut out 
from Paradise ").' Byron named Shelley the 
Serpent. 

Page 415. The Isle. Garnett conjectures 
that this poem was intended for the Frag- 
ments OF AN Unfinished Drama. 

Page 415. A Dirge, 6 strain, Rossetti's emen- 
dation for stain, given by all editors. 

Page 416. Lines Written in the Bay of 
Lerici. The lines were written during the last 
weeks of Shelley's life, perhaps, as Garnett con- 
jectures, about May 1, the last time that Shel- 
ley was at Lerici at the time of the full moon. 

Page 424. Prince Athanase. Cf. Epi- 
PSYCHIDION, note. 

II. 2. Cf. The Revolt of Islam, II. xxvii. 
7, note. 

II. 15. Cf. Prometheus Unbound, I. 451, 
note. 

II. 103, story of the feast, the Symposium. 

II. 106-113. This is the original germ of the 
Spirit of the Earth in Prometheus Unbound, 
not perhaps without some indebtedness to Cole- 
ridge, Ode on the Departing Year, iv. The same 
passage may also have been not without influ- 
ence on Shelley's idea of the ' intercessors ' (cf . 
Prometheus Unbound, III. iii. 49-60 ; Ode 
to Naples, 69 ; Ode to Liberty, xvii. 9, note), 
and of the guardian angels of the Prologue to 
Hellas. Shelley, however, entirely recreates 
the image in these several instances, and shows 
his highest original power in so doing. 

11. 118. Cf . Shelley, On Love, under Epi- 
PSYCHIDION, note. 

Page 431. Tasso. Garnett gives from the 
Boscorabe MS. Shelley's notes for intended 
scenes of this drama : ' Scene when he reads 
the sonnet which he wrote to Leonora to her- 
self as composed at the request of another. 
His disguising himself in the habit of a shep- 
herd, and questioning his sister in that disguise 
concei-ning himself, and then unveiling himself.' 

Page 432. Rossetti identifies the passage in 
Sismondi (Paris, 1826), viii. 142-143. 

Page 435. Lines written for Prome- 
theus Unbound. Cf. Prometheus Un- 
bound, IV. iv. 493. 

Page 436. Lines written for Epipsychi- 
DiON. Cf. Epipsychidion, note. 

Page 438. Lines written for Adonais. 
Rossetti suggests, rightly, I think, that tlie first 
fragment refers to Moore, the lyre being the 
Irish harp, and he transposes the first and sec- 
ond fragments. In the latter green Paradise is 



Ireland. In the last fragment Rossetti is u* 
able to find any human figure, and in this he 
also appears to be right. 

Page 446. Ginevra. Garnett identified the 
source as L'' Osservatore Fiorentino sugli edifizi 
della sua Patria, 1821, p. 119. In the story 
Ginevra revives. Cf . Hunt, A Legend of Flor- 
ence. 

Page 449. The Boat on the Serchio, 
line 30. Cf. The Triumph of Life, 18. 

Line 40. Cf . Translations from Dante, 
V. 13. 

Page 450. The Zucca. Cf . Epipsychidion, 
note, and Fragments of an Unfinished 
Drama, 127. 

Page 452. Charles the First. The Head- 
notes contain the history of the fragment. 

Page 466. Fragments of an Unfinished 
Drama. This poem is the most characteristic 
example of the last manner of Shelley in verse. 
It is shot through with reminiscences of his 
own work and with those of the poets he had 
long used as familiar masters and guides ; the 
sentiment is as before ; the material is not dif- 
ferent ; but over all, and pervading all, is a 
new charm, original, pure, and delicate, which 
makes the verse a new kind in English. 

Page 470. The Triumph of Life. This 
poem, the last work of Shelley, is obviously 
Italian in suggestion and manner, and is ob- 
scure to the ordinary reader. It is a pure and 
mystical allegory, in which Shelley has blended 
many elements of his intellectual culture under 
an imaginative artistic form of the Renaissance 
rarely modernized. The meaning, however, is 
not obscure to one who will let his mind dwell 
on and penetrate the imagery, after becoming 
familiarized with Shelley's previous works. A 
few notes only, and those of an obvious kind, 
can be given here. 

Line 103 that, the charioteer. 

Line 133. The sense is broken. 

Line 190 grim Feature. Cf. Milton, Paradise 
Lost, X. 279. 

Line 255. Socrates : because he did not love. 

line 261. Alexander and Aristotle. 

Line 283. The Roman Emperors. 

Line 290. The Papacy. 

Line 352. The last and most mystical of the 
eternal beings of Shelley's phantasy. 

Line 422. Mrs. Shelley's note : ' The favorite 
song, Stanco dt pascolar le ecorelli, is a Brescian 
national air.' 

Line 472 him, Dante. 

Page 480. Minor Fragments. The avail- 
able information regarding these poems is given 
in the Head-notes. 

Page 491. Translations. The Head-notes 
contain the records of these compositions. The 
text of The Cyclops has been examined by 
Swinburne, Essaj/s and Studies, 201-211. In 
Scenes from the Faust of Goethe, a 
slight correction, joy for you, ii. 333 (p. 545), is 
made in accordance with Zupitza's suggestion. 

Page 546. Juvenilia. The Head-notes in- 
clude all that is known of the history of these 
pieces. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



[Including the first lines of independent songs contained in the longer poems and dramas.] 



A CAT In distress, 547. 

A gentle story of two lovers young, 485. 

A glorious people vibrated again, 382. 

A golden-winged Angel stood, 486. 

A Hater he came and sat by a ditch, 486. 

A man who was about to hang himself, 519. 

A mighty Phantasm, half concealed, 439. 

A pale dream came to a Lady fair, 350. 

A portal as of shadowy adamant, 399. 

A scene, which wildered fancy viewed, 566. 

A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, 372. 

A shovel of his ashes took, 480. 

A woodman, whose rough heart was out of tune, 

430. 
Ah ! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is 

weary, 554. 
Alas ! good friend, what profit can you see, 400. 
Alas ! this is not what I thought life was, 490. 
Ambition, power, and avarice now have hurled, 

555. 
Amid the desolation of a city, 399. 
And canst thou mock mine agony, thus calm, 

558. 
And earnest to explore within — around, 523. 
And ever as he went he swept a lyre, 439. 
And like a dying lady, lean and pale, 485. 
And many there were hurt by that strong boy, 

444. 
And Peter Bell, when he had been, 260. 
And that I walked thus proudly crowned withal, 

490. 
And the green Paradise which western waves, 

439. 
And then came one of sweet and earnest looks, 

439. 
And where is truth ? On tombs ? for such to 

thee, 489. 
And who feels discord now or sorrow ? 487. 
An old, mad, blind, despised and dying king, 

365. 
Arethusa arose, 387. 
Ariel to Miranda : — Take, 414. 
Arise, arise, arise ! 369. 
Art thou indeed forever gone, ff60. 
Art thou pale for weariness, 485. 
As a violet's gentle eye, 435. 
As from an ancestral oak, 365. 
As I lay asleep in Italy, 253. 
As the sunrise to the night, 484. 
At the creation of the Earth, i44. 
Away I the moor is dark beneath the moon, 341. 

Bear witness, Erin I when thine injured isle, 
565. 



Before those cruel Twins, whom at one birth, 

273. 
Best and brightest, come away ! 412. 
Bright ball of flame that through the gloom of 

even, 569. 
Bright wanderer, fair coquette of heaven, 485. 
Brothers ! between you and me, 565. 
' Buona notte, buona notte ! ' — Come mai, 401. 
By the mossy brink, 563. 

Calm art thou as yon sunset ! swift and strong, 

88. 
Chameleons feed on light and air, 367. 
Come, be happy ! — sit near me, 362. 
Come hither, my sweet Rosalind, 137. 
Come, thou awakener of the spirit's ocean, 484. 
Corpses are cold in the tomb, 364. 

Dares the lama, most fleet of the sons of the 

wind, 561. 
Dark flood of time ! 608. 
Dar'st thou amid the varied multitude, 549. 
Daughters of Jove, whose voice is melody, 505. 
Dear home, thou scene of earliest hopes and 

joys, 480. 
Dearest, best and brightest, 440. 
Death is here, and death is there, 398. 
Death ! where is thy victory ? 549. 
' Do you not hear the Aziola cry ? 408. 

Eagle ! why soarest thou above that tomb ? 519. 
Earth, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood ! 33. 
Echoes we: listen! 181. 

Ever as now with Love and Virtue's glow, 
568. 

Faint with love, the Lady of the South, 485. 

Fairest of the Destinies, 439. 

False friend, wilt thou smile or weep, 249. 

Far, far away, ye, 405. 

Flourishing vine, whose kindling clusters glow, 
485. 

Follow to the deep wood's weeds, 484. 

For me, my friend, if not that tears did trem- 
ble, 483. 

For my dagger is bathed in the blood of the 
brave, 548. 

From the forests and highlands, 389. 

Gather, oh, gather, 436. 

Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your 

yelling, 551. 
God prosper, speed, and save, 365. 
Good-night ? ah, no ! the hour is ill, 401. 



044 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Great Spirit whom the sea of boundless thought, 

490. 
Guido, I would that Lappo, thou, and I, 522. 

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit ! 381. 

Hail to thee, Cambria ! for the unfettered wind, 

572. 
Hark ! the owlet flaps his wings, 547. 
Hast thou not seen, officious with delight, 537. 
He came like a dream in the dawn of life, 4(37. 
He fell, thou sayest, beneath his conqueror's 

frown, 190. 
Heigho ! the lark and the owl ! 466. 
' Here lieth One whose name was writ on 

water ! ' 482. 
Here, my dear friend, is a new book for jou, 

436. 
Here, oh, here! 197. 
Her voice did quiver as we parted, 355. 
He wanders, like a day-appearing dream, 489. 
Hie sinu fessum caput hospitali, 547. 
His face was like a snake's — wrinkled and 

loose, 486. 
Honey from silkworms who can gather, 356. 
Hopes, that swell in youthful breasts, 550. 
How eloquent are eyes ! 550. 
How, my dear Mary, are you critic-bitten, 272. 
How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner, 

553. 
How sweet it is to sit and read the tales, 485. 
How swiftly through heaven's wide expanse, 

553. 
How wonderful is Death, 3, 417. 

I am as a spirit who has dwelt, 487. 

I am drunk with the honey wine, 485. 

I arise from dreams of thee, 370. 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

380. 
I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way, 389. 
I dreamed that Milton's spirit rose, and took, 

483. 
I faint, I perish with my love ! I grow, 489. 
I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden, 387. 
I had once a lovely dream, 545. 
I hated thee, fallen tyrant ! I did groan, 344. 
I love thee, Baby ! for thine own sweet sake, 

340. 
I loved — alas ! our life is love, 432. 
I met a traveller from an antique land, 356. 
I mourn Adonis dead — loveliest Adonis, 520. 
I pant for the music which is divine, 488. 
I rode one evening with Count Maddalo, 152. 
I sing the glorious Power with azure eyes, 504. 
I stood within the city disinterred, 395. 
I weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 308. 
I went into the deserts of dim sleep, 489. 
I ?v^ould not be a king — enough, 487. 
If gibbets, axes, confiscations, chains, 445. 
If I esteemed you less. Envy would kill, 482. 
If I walk in Autumn's even, 410. 
Inter marmoreas Leonorae pendula colles, 548. 
In the cave which wild weeds cover, 486. 
In the sweet solitude of this calm place, 526. 
Is it that in some brighter sphere, 487. 
Is it the Eternal Triune, is it He, 573. 
Is not to-day enough ? Why do I peer, 487. 



It is not blasphemy to hope that Heaven, 568. 
It is the day when all the sons of God, 320. 
It lieth, gazing on the midnight sky, 369. 
It was a bright and cheerful afternoon, 399. 

Kissing Helena, together, 519. 

Let those who pine in pride or in revenge, 432. 

Life of Life, thy lii^s enkindle, 188. 

Lift not the painted veil which those who live, 

:H63. 
Like the ghost of a dear friend dead, 400. 
Listen, listen, Mary mine, 357. 

Madonna, wherefore hast thou sent to me, 482. 
Maiden, quench the glare of sorrow, 563. 
Many a green isle needs must be, 358. 
Melodious Arethusa, o'er my verse, 521. 
Men of England, wherefore plough, 364. 
Methought I was a billow in the crowd, 489. 
Mighty eagle ! thou that soarest, 483. 
Mine eyes were dim with tears unshed, 342. 
Monarch of Gods and Daemons, and all Spirits, 

165. 
Month after month the gathered rains descend, 

357. 
Moonbeam, leave the shadowy vale, 549. 
Muse, sing the deeds of golden Aphrodite, 503. 
Music, when soft voices die, 404. 
My dearest Mary, wherefore hast thou gone, 

481. _ 
My faint spirit was sitting in the light, 403. 
^ly head is heavy, my limbs are weary, 487. 
My head is wild with weeping for a grief, 482. 
My lost William, thou in whom, 481. 
My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few, 298. 
My spirit like a charmed bark doth swim, 488. 
My thoughts arise and fade in solitude, 490. 

Night, with all thine eyes look down ! 407. 
No access to the Duke ! You have not said, 

431. 
No Music, thou art not the 'food of Love,' 

488. 
No trump tells thy virtues — the grave where 

they rest, 566. 
Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame, 406. 
Not far from hence. From yonder pointed hill, 

441. 
Now had the loophole of that dungeon, still, 524. 
Now the last day of many days, 412. 

Bacchus, what a world of toil, both now, 506. 

happy Earth ! reality of Heaven I 420. 

O Mary dear, that you were here, 480. 

O mighty mind, in whose deep stream this age, 

482. 
O pillow cold and wet with tears ! 435. 
thou bright Sun ! beneath the dark blue line, 

339. 
O thou immortal deity, 490. 
O thou, who plumed with strong desire, 390. 
O universal Mother, who dost keep, 505. 
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's 

being, 367. 
O world ! O life ! O time ! 410. 
Offspring of Jove, Calliope, once more, 504» 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



64s 



Oh, follow, foUow, 181. 

Oh ! take the pure gem to where southerly 

breezes, 562. 
Oh, that a chariot of cloud were mine ! 489. 
Oh, there are spirits of the air, 340. 
Old winter was gone, 448. 
Once, early in the morning, 570. 
Once more descend, 483. 

One sung of thee who left the tale untold, 485. 
One word is too often profaued, 408. 
Orphan hours, the year is dead, 402. 
Our boat is asleep on Serchio's stream, 449. 

Palace-roof of cloudless nights, 366. 

Pan loved his neighbor Echo, but that child, 

520. 
People of England, ye who toil and groan, 484. 
Peter Bells, one, two and three, 260. 
Place for the Marshal of the Masque ! 453. 
Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know, 344. 

Rarely, rarely, comest thou, 403. 
Returning from its daily quest, my Spirit, 525. 
Rome has fallen ; ye see it lying, 484. 
Rough wind, that moanest loud, 415. 

Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth, 388. 

She left me at the silent time, 416. 

She was an aged woman ; and the years, 564. 

Silence ! Oh, well are Death and Sleep and 

Thou, 489. 
Silver key of the fountain of tears, 488. 
Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove, 491. 
' Sleep, sleep on ! forget thy pain, 411. 
So now my summer-task is ended, Mary, 49. 
Such hope, as is the sick despair of good, 489. 
Summer was dead and Autumn was expiring, 

450. 
Sweet Spirit ! sister of that orphan one, 298. 
Sweet star, which gleaming o'er the darksome 

scene, 563. 
Swift as a spirit hastening to his task, 471. 
Swifter far than summer's flight, 409, 
Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, 403. 

Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light, 400. 
That matter of the murder is hushed up, 211. 
That time is dead forever, child, 355, 
The awful shadow of some unseen Power, 346. 
The babe is at peace within the womb, 486. 
The billows on the beach are leaping around it, 

354. _ 
The brilliant orb of parting day, 576. 
The cold earth slept below, 345. 
^The colour from the flower is gone, 640. 
The curtain of the Universe, 321. 
The death-bell beats ! 552. 
The everlasting universe of things, 347. 
The fierce beasts of the woods and wildernesses, 

489. 
The fiery mountains answer each other, 398. 
The fitful alternations of the rain, 484. 
The flower that smiles to-day, 404. 
The fountains mingle with the river, 371. 
The gentleness of rain was in the wind, 484. 
The golden gates of sleep unbar, 406. 
The keen stars were twinkling, 415, 



The odor from the flower is gone, 358. 

The pale, the cold, and the moony smUe, 343. 

The rose that drinks the fountain dew, 481. 

The rude wind is singing, 486. 

The season was the childhood of sweet June, 

443. 
The serpent is shut out from paradise, 409. 
The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, 

388. 
The spider spreads her webs whether she be, 

391, 
The sun is set ; the swallows are asleep, 407. 
The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 363. 
The sun makes music as of old, 538. 
The viewless and invisible Consequence, 486. 
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wail- 
ing, 398. 
The waters are flashing, 405. 
The wind has swept from the wide atmosphere, 

343. 
The world is dreary, 480. 
The world is now our dwelling-place, 481. 
There is a voice, not understood by all, 435. 
There is a warm and gentle atmosphere, 487. 
There late was One within whose subtle being, 

345. 
There was a little lawny islet, 415. 
There was a youth, who, as with toil and travel, 

425. 
These are two friends whose lives were undi- 
vided, 415. 
They die — the dead return not. Misery, 355. 
Those whom nor power, nor lying faith, nor 

toil, 483, 
Thou art fair, and few are fairer, 371. 
Thou supreme goddess ! by whose power divine, 

284. 
Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be, 

431. 
Thou wert the morning star among the living, 

519. 
Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die, 352. 
Thy country's curse is on thee, darkest crest, 

353, 
Thy dewy looks sink in my breast, 340. 
Thy little footsteps on the sands, 481. 
Thy look of love has power to calm, 342. 
'T is midnight now — athwart the murky air, 

557. 
'T is the terror of tempest. The rags of the 

sail, 377. 
To the deep, to the deep, 184. 
To thirst and find no fill — to wail and wander, 

488, 
Tremble Kings despised of man ! 561. 
'Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my 

dwelling, 551. 

Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years, 

402. 
Unrisen splendor of the brightest sun, 484. 

Vessels of heavenly medicine ! may the breeze, 

569. 

Wake the serpent not — lest he, 487. 
Wealth and dominion fade into the mass, 488. 



646 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon, 

343. 
We meet not as we parted, 452. 
We strew these opiate flowers, 322. 
What ! alive and so bold, Earth, 406. 
* What art thou, presumptuous, who profanest, 

483. 
What is the glory far above, 534. 
What Mary is when she a little smiles, 522. 
What men gain fairly, that they should possess, 

484. 
What sounds are those that float upon the air, 

580. 
What think you the dead are ? 435. 
What veiled form sits on that ebon throne? 

184. 
What was the shriek that struck fancy's ear, 

559. 
When a lover clasps his fairest, 486. 
When passion's trance is overpast, 404. 
When soft winds and sunny skies, 484. 
When the lamp is shattered, 410. 
When the last hope of trampled France had 

failed, 51. 



When winds that move not its calm surface 

sweep, 520. 
Where art thou, beloved To-morrow ? 410. 
Where man's profane and tainting hand, 572. 
Whilst monarchs laughed upon their thrones, 

595. 
Whose is the love that, gleaming through the 

world, 2. 
Why is it said thou canst not live, 562. 
Wild, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one, 

446. 
Wilt thou forget the happy hours, 358. 
Within a cavern of man's trackless spirit, 436. 

Ye Dorian woods and waves lament aloud, 520. 
Ye gentle visitations of calm thought, 490. 
Ye hasten to the grave ! What seek ye there, 

400. 
Ye who intelligent the Third Heaven move, 522. 
Ye wild-eyed Muses, sing the Twins of Jove, 

504. 
Yes ! all is past — swift time has fled away, 

559. 
Yet look on me — take not thine eyes away, 341. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



[The titles of major works and of general divisions are set in small capitals.] 



Adonais, 307. 

Adonais, Lines -written for, 438. 

Adonis, Fragment of the Elegy on the Death of, 

520. 
'Alas! this is not what I thought life was,' 

490. 
Alastor, 31. 
Allegory, An, 399. 
Apennines, Passage of the, 357. 
Apollo, Hymn of, 388. 
Arabic, From the, 403. 
Arethusa, 387. 
Autumn ; a Dirge, 398. 
Aziola, The, 408. 

Balloon laden with Knowledge, Sonnet to a, 

569. 
Before and After, 486. 
Bereavement, 553. 
Bigotry's Victim, 561. 
Bion, Fragment of the Elegy on the Death of, 

520. 
Bion, Translation from ; a Fragment of the 

Elegy on the Death of Adonis, 520. 
Birth of Pleasure, The, 444. 
Boat on the Serehio, The, 449. 
Bonaparte, Feelings of a Republican on the 

Fall of, 344. 
Bridal Song, A, 406. 
Buona Notte, 400. 
Byron, Sonnet to, 482. 

Calderon, Scenes from the Magico Prodigioso of, 
526. Stanzas from the Cisma de Inglaterra 
of, 537. 

Carlton House, On a Fete at, 563. 

Castlereagh Administration, Lines written dur- 
ing the, 364. 

Castlereagh, To Sidmouth and, 365. 

Castor and Pollux, Hymn to, 504. 

Cat, Verses on a, 546. 

Cavalcanti, Guido, to Dante Alighieri, 525. 

Cenci, The, 206. 

Chamouni, Lines written in the Vale of, 347. 

Charles the First, 452. 

Circumstance, 519. 

Cisma de Inglaterra, Stanzas from, 537. 

Cloud, The, 380. 

Consequence, 486. 

Constantia, To, 481. 

Constantia singing. To, 352. 

Convito, The First Canzone of the, 522. 

Corday, Charlotte, Fragment supposed to be 
the Epithalamium of Francis RavaUlac and, 
557. 

Clitic, Lines to a, 356. 



Crowned, 490. 

Cyclops, The : A Satyric Drama, 506. 

Daemon of the World, The, 416. 

Dante Alighieri to Guido Cavalcanti, 522. 

Dante, Translations from, 522-525. 

Death (' Death is here, and death is there '), 

398. 
Death ('They die — the dead return not. 

Misery '), 355. 
Death, On (' The pale, the cold and the moony 

smile '), 343. 
Death, To (' Death ! where is thy victory '), 549. 
Deserts of Sleep, The, 489. 
Despair, 558. 
Devil's Walk, The, 570. 
Dialogue, A. 548. 
Dirge, A (' Rough wind, that meanest loud '), 

415. 
Dirge for the year, 402. 
Dirge from Ginevra, The, 448. 
Doubtful Poems, 573. 
Dream, A, 489. 
Drowned Lover, The, 554. 

Early Poems, 339. 

Earth, Mother of All, Hymn to the, 505. 

Elegy on the Death of Adonis, Fragment ot 

the, 520. 
Elegy on the Death of Bion, Fragment of the, 

520. 
Elegy on the Death of John Keats, An, 307. 
Emmet's, Robert, Grave, On, 566. 
England in 1819, 365. 
England, Song to the Men of, 364. 
England, To the People of, 484. 
Epigrams from the Greek, 519. 
Eplpsychidion, 297 ; Lines connected with, 

436. 
Epitaph ('These are two friends whose lives 

were undivided '), 415. 
Epitaphium, Latin Version of the Epitaph in 

Gray's Elegy, 547. 
Epithalamium, 407 ; another version, 407. 
Euganean HiUs, Lines written among the, 358, 
Euripides, Translation of The Cyclops of, 506. 
Evening : Ponte al Mare, Pisa, 407. 
Evening: To Harriet, 339. 
Exhortation, An, 367. 
Eyes, 550. 

Face, A, 486. 
Faded Violet, On a, 358. 
Falsehood and Vice, 595. 
Farewell to North Devon, 572. 
Faust, Scenes from, 537. 



64S 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Feelings of a Republican on the Fall of Bona- 
parte, 344. 

F6te at Carlton House, On a, 563. 

Fiordispina, 443. 

'FoUow,'484. 

Fkagments, 416. 

Fragment of a Ghost Story, 480. 

Fragment of a Sonnet ; Farewell to North 
Devon, 572. 

Fragment of a Sonnet ; To Harriet, 568. 

Fragment of an Unfinished Drama, 466. 

Fragment of the Elegy on the Death of Adonis, 
520. 

Fragment of the Elegy on the Death of Bion, 
520. 

Fragment supposed to be an Epithalamium of 
Francis Ravaillac and Charlotte Corday, 557. 

Fragment (' Yes ! all is past — swift time has 
fled away '), 559. 

From the Arabic : An Imitation, 403. 

Fugitives, The, 405. 

Furies, Song of the, 486. 

Gentle Story, A, 485. 
Ghost Story, Fragment of a, 480. 
Ginevra, 446. 

Gisborne, Maria, Letter to, 390. 
Godwin, Fanny, On, 355. 
Godwin, Mary WoUstonecraft, To, 342. 
Goethe, Scenes from the Faust of, 537. 
Good-Night, 401. 

Gray's Elegy, Latin Version of the Epitaph in, 
547. 

* Great Spirit,' 490. 

Harriet ***** , To, 2. 

Harriet, To : Fragment of a Sonnet, 568. 

Harriet, To (' It is not blasphemy to hope that 

Heaven '), 568. 
Harriet, To (' thou bright Sun ! beneath the 

dark blue line '), 339. 
Harriet, To (' Thy look of love has power to 

calm '), 342. 
Hate-Song, A, 486. 
' He wanders,' 489. 
Heart's Tomb, The, 489. 
Heaven, Ode to, 366. 
Hellas, 317 ; Lines written for, 439. 
Home, 480. 
Homer, Translations from the Greek of, 491, 

503, 504, 505. 
Hope, Fear, and Doubt, 489. 
Horologium, In, 548. 
Hymns : — 

Apollo's, 388. 

Pan's, 389. 

To Castor and Pollux, 504. 

To Intellectual Beauty, 346. 

To Mercury, 491. 

To Minerva, 504. 

To the Earth, Mother of AU, 505. 

To the Moon, 505. 

To the Sun, 504. 

To Venus, 503. 

*I faint, I perish with my love,' 489. 

* I would not be a king,' 487. 



lanthe. To, 340. 

Icicle that clung to the Grass of a Grave, On an, 

562. 
In Horologium, 548. 
Indian Serenade, The, 370; Lines written for, 

435. 
Inspiration, 483. 

Intellectual Beauty, Hymn to, 346. 
Invitation, The ; To Jane, 412. 
Invocation to Misery, 362. 
Ireland, To, 565. 

' Is it that in some brighter sphere,* 487. 
' Is not to-day enough ? ' 487. 
Isle, The, 415. 
Italy, To, 484. 

Jane, To (' The keen stars were twinkling '), 

415. 
Jane, To ; The Invitation, The Recollection, 

412 ; First Draft of, 440. 
Jane, To : With a Guitar, 413. 
Julian and Maddalo, 151 ; Lines written for, 

435. 
JuvENnjA, 546. 

Keats, John, An Elegy on the Death of, 307. 
Keats, On, 482. 
Kissing Helena, 519. 

Lady of the South, The, 485. 

Lament, A, 410. 

Laurel, 483. 

Lerici, Lines written in the Bay of, 416, 

Letter to Maria Gisborne, 390. 

Liberty, 398. 

Liberty, Ode to, 382 ; Lines written for, 436. 

Lines connected with Epipsychidion, 436. 

' Far, far away, ye, ' 405. 

' If I walk in Autumn's even,' 410. 

'That time is dead forever, child,' 355. 

' The cold earth slept below,' 345. 

To a Critic, 356. 

To a Reviewer, 400. 

' We meet not as we parted,' 452. 

' When the lamji is shattered,' 410. 

Written among the Euganean Hills, 358. 

Written during the Castlereagh Adminis- 
tration, 364. 

Written for Adonais, 438. 

Written for Hellas, 439. 

Written for Julian and Maddalo, 435. 

Written for Mont Blanc, 435. 

Written for Prometheus Unbound, 435. 

Written for the Indian Serenade, 435. 

Written for the Ode to Liberty, 436. 

Written for the poem to William Shelley, 
481. 

Written in the Bay of Lerici, 416. 

Written in the Vale of Chamouni, 347. 

Written on hearing the news of the death 
of Napoleon, 406. 
Lord Chancellor, To the, 353. 
Lost Leader, A, 482. 
Love (' Wealth and dominion fade into the 

mass'), 488. 
Love (' Why is it said thou canst not live'), 
562, 



INDEX OF TITLES 



649 



Love, Hope, Desire, and Fear, 444. 
Love's Atmosphere, 487. 
Love's Philosophy, 371. 
Love's Rose, 550. 

Magico Prodigioso, Scenes from the, 526. 

Magnetic Lady to her Patient, The, 411. 

Marenghi, 432. 

Marianne's Dream, 350. 

Marseillaise Hymn, Stanza from a Translation 

of the, 561. 

Mary , To, 49. 

Mary, To (' Mary dear, that you were here '), 

480. 
Mary, To C My dearest Mary, wherefore hast 

thou gone '), 481. 
Mary, To (' The world is dreary '), 480. 
Mary, To, upon her objecting to ' The Witch of 

Atlas,' 272. 
Mary, To, who died in this Opinion, 563. 
Mask of Anarchy, The, 252. 
Matilda gathering Flowers, 523. 
Medusa of Leonardo da Vinci, On the, 369. 
Melody to a Scene of Former Times, 560. 
Mercury, Hymn to, 491. 
' Mighty Eagle,' 483. 
Milton's Spirit, 483. 
Minerva, Hymn to, 504. 
Minor Fragments, 480. 
Misery, Invocation to, 362. 
Mont Blanc : Lines written in the Vale of Cha- 

mouni, 347 ; Lines written for, 435. 
Moon, Hymn to the, 505. 
Moon, To the (' Art thou pale for weariness '), 

485. 
Moon, To the ('Bright wanderer, fair coquette 

of heaven'), 485. 
Moonbeam, To the, 549. 
Moschus. Translations from the Greek of, 

520. 
Music (' I pant for the music which is divine '), 

488. 
Music, To (' No, Music, thou art not the " food 

of Love " '), 4^8. 
Music, To C Silver key of the fountain of 

tears '), 488. 
Mutability (' The flower that smiles to-day '), 

404. 
Mutability ('We are as clouds that veil the 

midnight moon '), 343. 
* My thoughts,' 490. 

Naples, Ode to, 395. 

Napoleon, Lines written on hearing the news of 

the death of, 406. 
National Anthem, 365. 
Nicholson, Margaret, Posthumous Fragments 

of, 554. 
Night, To, 403. 
Nile, To the ; Sonnet, 357. 

' O thou immortal deity,' 490. 
Odes : — 

To Heaven, 366. 

To Liberty, 382 ; Lines written for the, 
436. 

To Naples, 395, 



To the West Wind, 367. 
Written October, 1819, before the Spaniards 
had recovered their liberty, 369 ; Stanza 
written for, 436. 
CEdipus Tyrannus, 283. 
' Oh, that a chariot of cloud were mine,' 489. 
Omens, 547. 

On a Faded Violet, 358. 
On a Fete at Carlton House, 563. 
On an Icicle that clung to the Grass of b Grave, 

562. 
On Death (' The pale, the cold, and the moony 

smile '), 343. 
On Fanny Godwin, 355. 
On Keats, 482. 
On launching some Bottles filled with Knovr 

ledge into the Bristol Channel, 569. 
On leaving London for Wales, 572. 
On Robert Emmet's Grave, 566. 
' On the Dark Height of Jura,' 551. 
On the Medusa of Leonardo da Vinci, 369. 
' Once more descend,' 483. 
One Singing, To, 488. 
Orpheus, 441. 
Otho, 431. 
Ozymandias, 356. 

Pan, Echo, and the Satyr, 620. 

Pan, Hymn of, 389. 

Passage of the Apennines, 357, 

Past, The, 358. 

Peter Bell the Third, 258. 

Pine Forest of the Cascine near Pisa, The, 44ft 

Plato, Spirit of, 519. 

Plato, Translations from the Greek of, 519. 

Poems written in 1816, 345. 

Poems written in 1817, 349. 

Poems written in 1818, 356. 

Poems written in 1819, 364. 

Poems written in 1820, 371. 

Poems written in 1821, 401. 

Poems written in 1822, 410. 

Poetry and Music, 485. 

Poet's Lover, The, 487. 

Political Greatness, 405. 

Ponte al Mare, Pisa, 407. 

Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nichol- 
son, 554. 

Prince Athanase, 424. 

Prometheus UNBOtrND, 160; Lines written 
for, 435. 

Proserpine, Song of, while gathering flowers on 
the Plain of Enna, 388. 

Queen Mab, 1. 
Question, The, 389. 

Rain, 484. 

Rain- Wind, The, 48i. 

Ravaillac, Francis, Fragment supposed to be the 
Epithalaraium of, and Charlotte Corday, 557. 
Recollection, The : To Jane, 412. 
Remembrance, 408. 

Republicans of North America, To the, 565. 
Retrospect, The : Cwm Elan, 1812, 566. 
Reviewer, Lines to a, 400. 
Revolt op Islam, The, 43, 



650 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Roman's Chamber, A, 486. 
Rome, 484. 

Rosalind and Helen, 136. 
Rosicrucian, The, Poems from, 551, 

St. Irvyne, Poems from, 551. 

St. Irvyne's Tower, 553. 

Satire on Satire, A, 445. 

Scene of Former Times, Melody to a, 560. 

Sensitive Plant, The, 372. 

Shadow of Hell, The, 486. 

Shelley, William, To C My lost William, thou in 

whom '), 481. 
Shelley, ^Villiaro, To (' The biUows on the beach 

are leaping around it '), 354. 
SheUey, William, To (' Thy little footsteps on 

the sands'), 481. 
Sidmouth and Castlereagh, To, 365. 
Silence, To, 489. 
Sister Rosa : a Ballad, 552. 
Skylark, To a, 381. 
Society, A Tale of, as it Is, 563. 
Solitary, The, 549. 
Songs : — 

Bridal, 406. 

' Calm art thou as yon sunset ! swift and 
strong,' 88. 

' False friend, wilt thou smile or weep,' 249. 

'Furies,' 486. 

Hate-Song, A, 486. 

' Heigho ! the lark and the owl,' 466. 

' Here, oh, here ! ' 197. 

' I loved — alas ! our life is love,' 432. 

' Life of Life, thy lips enkindle,' 188. 

Proserpine's, while gathering flowers on the 
Plain of Enna, 388. 

* Rarely, rarely, comest thou,' 403. 
Spirits, 184. 

To the Men of England, 364. 

' What sounds are those that float upon the 

air,' 580. 
Sonnets : — 

Cavalcanti, Guido, to Dante Alighieri, 525. 
Dante Alighieri to Guido Cavalcanti, 522. 
Evening : To Harriet, 339. 
Farewell to North Devon : a Fragment, 

572. 
Feelings of a Republican on the Fall of 

Bonaparte, 344. 

* Lift not the painted veil which those who 

live,' 363. 

On launching some Bottles filled with 
Knowledge into the Bristol Channel, 569. 

Ozymandias, 356. 

Political Greatness, 405. 

To a Balloon laden with Knowledge, 569. 

To Byron, 482. 

To Harriet : a Fragment, 568. 

To lanthe, 340. 

To the Nile, 357. 

To Wordsworth, 344. 

' Ye hasten to the grave ! What seek ye 
there,' 400. 
Sophia, To, 370. 
Spectral Horseman, The, 559. 
Spirit of Plato, 519. 
Spirit of Solitude, Thb, 31. 



Stanzas : — 

April, 1814, 341. 

From a Translation of the Marseillaise 
Hymn, 561. 

Written at Bracknell, 340. 

Written for the Ode, written October, 1819, 
436. 

Written in dejection near Naples, 363. 
Star, To a, 563. 
SteUa, To, 519. 
Summer and Winter, 399. 
Summer Evening Churchyard, A, 343, 
Sun, Hymn to the, 504. 
Sunset, The, 345. 

SWELLFOOT THE TyRANT, 283. 

Tale of Society as it Is, A, 563. 

Tale Untold, The, 485. 

Tasso 431 . 

Tenth Eclogue from Virgil, The, 521. 

' The fierce beasts, '489. 

' The rude wind is singing,' 486. 

Time, 402. 

Time Long Past, 400. 

To C For me, my friend, if not that tears did 

tremble '), 483. 

To (' I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden '), 387. 

To (' Music, when soft voices die '), 404. 

To C O mighty mind, in whose deep stream 

this age '), 482. 

To (' Oh, there are spirits of the air '), 340. 

To (' One word is too often profaned '), 408. 

To C When passion's trance is overpast '), 

404. 
To (' Yet look on me — take not thine eyes 

away'), 341. 
To a Balloon laden with Knowledge, 569. 
To a Skylark, 381. 
To a Star, 563. 
To Constantia, 481. 
To Constantia singing, 352. 
To Death C Death ! where is thy victory '), 549. 
To Edward Williams, 409. 
To Emilia Viviani, 482. 
To Harriet ***** , 2. 
To Harriet : Fragment of a Sonnet, 568. 
To Harriet (' It is not blasphemy to hope that 

Heaven '), 568. 
To Harriet (' O thou bright Sun ! beneath 

the dark blue line '), 339. 
To Harriet (' Thy look of love has power to 

calm '), 342. 
To lanthe, 340. 
To Ireland, 565. 
To Italy, 484. 
To Jane ; The Invitation, The Recollection, 

412 ; First Draft of, 440. 
To Jane (' The keen stars were twinkling '), 415. 
To Jane : With a Guitar, 413. 

To Mary , 49. 

To Mary (' My dearest Mary, wherefore hast 

thou gone '), 481. 
To Mary (' O Mary dear, that you were here '), 

480. 
To Mary (' The world is dreary '), 480. 
To Mary, on her objecting to ' The Witch of At- 
las,' 272. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



651 



To Mary, who died in this Opinion, 563. 

To Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, 342. 

To Music (' No, Music, thou art not the " food 

of Love " '), 488. 
To Music (' Silver key of the fountain of tears '), 

488. 
To Night, 403. 
To One Singing, 488. 
To Sidmouth and Castlereagh, 365. 
To Silence, 489. 
To Sophia, 370. 
To Stella, 519. 

To the Lord Chancellor, 353. 
To the Men of England, 364. 
To the Moon (' Art thou pale from weariness '), 

485. 
To the Moon (' Bright wanderer, fair coquette 

of heaven '), 485. 
To the Moonbeam, 549. 
To the People of England, 484. 
To the Republicans of North America, 565. 
' To thirst and find no fill,' 487. 
To William Shelley (' My lost William, thou in 

whom '), 481. 
To William Shelley (' The biUows on the beach 
are leaping around it '), 354 ; Lines written 
for the poem, 481. 
To William Shelley (' Thy little footsteps on the 

sands'), 481. 
To Wordsworth, 344. 
To Zephyr, 484. 
To-day, 487. 
To-morrow, 410. 
Torpor, 487. 

Tower of Famine, The, 399. 
Translations, 491. 
Translations : — 

From Bion, 520. 

From Calderon, 526, 537. 

From Cavalcanti, 525. 

From Dante, 522-525. 

From Euripides, 506. 

From Goethe, 537. 



From Homer, 491, 503, 504, 505. 

From Moschus, 520. 

From Plato, 519. 

From Virgil, 521. 
Triumph of Life, The, 470. 
Two Spirits, The, 390. 

Ugolino, 524. 

Unfinished Drama, Fragments of an, 466, 

' Unrisen Splendor,' 484. 

Venus, Hymn to, 503. 

Verses on a Cat, 546. 

Victoria, 551. 

Vine, The, 485. 

Virgil, Translation of the Tenth Eclogue of, 521. 

Vision of the Sea, A, 377. 

Vita Nuova, Adapted from a Sonnet in the, 522. 

Viviani, Emilia, To, 482, 

' Wake the serpent not,' 487. 

Wandering Jew, The, 576. 

Wandering Jew's Soliloquy, The, 573. 

Waning Moon, The, 485. 

War, 555. 

West Wind, Ode to the, 367. 

' What men gain fairly,' 484. 

' When soft winds,' 484. 

' When winds that move not its calm surface 

sweep,' 520. 
Williams, To Edward, 409. 
Wine of Eglantine, 485. 
Witch of Atlas, The, 271. 
With a Guitar : To Jane, 413. 
Woodman and the Nightingale, The, 430. 
Wordsworth, To, 344. 
World's Wanderers, The, 400. 

' Ye gentle visitations, ' 490. 
Year, Dirge for the, 4CS. 

Zephyr, To, 484. 
Zucca, The, 450, 



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